


The Revelations

by Baamon5evr



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arya Stark is Not a Virgin, Canon-Typical Violence, Cersei is Gendry's Mother, F/M, Gen, Gendry is a Baratheon, Jon Snow knows nothing, Like Baelish-level creepin', Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, POV Multiple, Past Incest, Period-Typical Underage, Prince Gendry, R plus L equals J, Robert is a creep, Romance With Plot, because Jaime/Cersei, everything else is background or mentioned or a side pairing, gendry/arya is main
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-03-09 19:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 107,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baamon5evr/pseuds/Baamon5evr
Summary: Cersei and Jaime's secret is discovered by Robert and in order to save herself, she lets out another secret: Jon's true origins. With the Starks now in the capital, Prince Gendry is finding himself struggling to juggle saving his family and his conscious in condemning someone else's, all the while Lady Arya is piquing his interest more and more. And other players work to find what events have occurred that seem to be making King's Landing an even queerer place than before.





	1. Gendry I

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea hit me like a ton of bricks. This story is half-way done already and I'll try to keep a consistent posting schedule of at least once a week until the story is complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fandom! This is my first full length fic, so I'm a little nervous but I wished to see more prince!Gendry stories so this is my contribution. Will try to keep a consistent posting schedule.

**305 AC**

Gendry had never put King's Landing at the top of his list of favorite places to reside. Maybe that was down to the fact that he spent so much time in places like the Stormlands and the Westerlands and the Reach, where the stench of shit and filth did not hang over the place, the poor was not as plentiful, and people seemed a bit more genuine, even if only a fraction. But King's Landing was home, not that he had much choice seeing as how he was the Crown Prince. It would be the place where he ruled one day and so he didn't have much choice but to accept it as his own. Still, despite how lackluster he found it, there were some gems to be found here. He enjoyed the training yards but most of all, it was his family that he enjoyed (not all of them mind, but enough of them).

Gendry strut through the palace, his feet taking him towards his sister's chambers. The door was cracked open when he arrived and he could hear his sisters and the other girls talking in the room.

"Describe him to me again." Myrcella requested. Gendry knew exactly what she meant and rolled his eyes as he heard the dreamy tone in her voice.

"Again, Cella? Haven't you heard enough?" Their half-sister, Amarei complained. She was only ten and not always proper or quiet as was expected of any girl, bastard or not. Both she and her twin sister Marissa were born of their father's tryst with their second cousin Ambyr Frey, Great-Aunt Genna's only daughter. Mother was livid and didn't want them there but because they were born of nobility Father had to acknowledge them. Then Aunt Genna requested they be taken in by the royal family as Lady Ambyr was to marry and her new husband did not want the bastards in his home. Mother was insulted by the request. She was insulted even more that Father had brought them to the palace and gave them to Myrcella rather than the cooks or the servants or maids to deal with as he had done to their other half-sisters, Ora and Argella, after Uncle Renly brought them with him on a visit. His father had been feeling strangely paternal and wanted his daughters near him but eventually he grew bored and sent them off for others to deal with. Either way, Myrcella got along well with all the girls and treated them as kin more than as servants, whether in her service or not.

"It’s true, Myrcella. We’ve heard about Prince Trystane more times than I can count. What's so special about some boy?" Marissa asked.

"It's not just some boy, he is to be her husband one day." Rosamund, their cousin and Myrcella's lady-in-waiting corrected.

"So why isn't he here instead of his cousin?" Marissa asked.

"Because you Northerners are uptight and strange in your customs. Had it been up to Dorne, Myrcella would be by Trystane's side now so they could learn one another better than just through letters." Elia Sand replied. She was Trystane's cousin and had been sent by the Martells to help acquaint Myrcella with Dorne, if only through Elia's friendship. Soon they would go to Dorne together and Myrcella would meet her betrothed face to face before the marriage. It would be very soon, Gendry knew. Myrcella was ten and five now, practically a woman grown. It was only Mother's reservations of not wanting to send her only daughter away to treat with 'sand-mad, lustful heathens' that delayed her departure. Myrcella had no such reservations.

"When are you going to get married, Elia? You're ten and nine now. If you don't hurry you'll be an old maid having never experienced a man's touch. That's what our septa says anyway." Rose said. Gendry could practically hear the lecherous grin Elia now sported.

"Is that what your septa says? Well—" Gendry decided to make himself known then, lest Elia say something that could not be taken back.

"How about I save you all the trouble of hearing more poetic waxing on Prince Trystane's virtues?" He said by way of greeting. Amarei and Marissa's blue eyes lit up upon seeing him, both running over to give him a hug. Elia shot him a knowing look but said nothing. Myrcella's green eyes also lit up before filling with annoyance as she took in his words.

"It's not poetic waxing. I should know as much as I can about my betrothed before I am to marry him. Just as Elia said, I can only learn so much through letters with him."

"Elia can only tell you so much, I'm sure, as she's been with you for the last three years." Gendry retorted sharing a look of amusement with Elia.

She was closer to his age than to Myrcella's, Elia having ten and nine namedays to Gendry's twenty and one. They got along well together, he and Elia. He would even consider them friends. They had found their way into each other's bed a time or two, both largely drunken encounters, but Elia wasn't as pious or reserved as other ladies. She wasn't easy like people thought she was because of her status as being a Dornish bastard but she also wasn't overly stringent about her affections with both men and women. She wasn't like most ladies at all. She knew how to fight and what's more, she enjoyed jousting. Some people called her Lady Lance. She was a wonder in the saddle, presenting a smaller target and possessing greater strength than her small frame would suggest. Her activities were a source of contention for Mother, who already hated that so many of Myrcella's companions were bastards, but Father found Elia amusing, that was between looking haunted and hateful towards her. Ser Barristan said it was because Elia resembled her namesake as much as Gendry resembled Robert. Elia hadn't officially entered the lists in a tourney just yet but if she did, Gendry thought she had a real chance of winning. It was amusing to think of who she would think to crown Queen of Love and Beauty.

"What are you doing here anyway, Gen?" Myrcella asked.

"It's about time for dinner, I came to fetch you." His sister nodded and took Gendry's arm, bidding the other girls goodbye as they all left the room and went their separate ways. Gendry was distantly aware of Ser Arys Oakheart and Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard following behind them. They were silent as they made their way to the private dining room.

Only his brothers were there when they arrived at the table. Joffrey was sneering at Tommen, who shrunk in his seat, Ser Pounce clutched in his lap. Despite Tommen no longer being a child, at ten and four he was still timid and non-confrontational which Joffrey preyed on and used to torment him, at least when no one was around. No one who would stop him anyway. In the room, there was Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Sandor Clegane. Though Ser Barristan cared for Tommen, he wouldn't stop Joffrey unless he was doing physical harm to him. Ser Sandor probably didn't care either way. Gendry smacked Joffrey on the back of the head as he sat beside him. Joffrey shot him a glare.

"How dare you! You're not allowed to put your hands on me."

"I just did, what are you going to do? Fight me? I'd like to see that, wouldn't you Tom?" Gendry said. Tommen smiled wanly at him in response. They both knew Joffrey was the worst fighter in the Crownlands, maybe even the realm. Myrcella fought better than he did and she had no interest in anything other than the feminine arts. Joffrey looked away, grumbling under his breath. Gendry noted that Tommen and Joffrey had already begun to eat even though their parents weren't there.

"Where's Mother and Father?" He asked. Joffrey shrugged uncaringly.

"I don't know."

"We waited for twenty minutes but we were hungry." Tommen added.

"Of course _you_ were hungry." Joffrey snapped, causing Tommen to flush with embarrassment.

"Leave him alone, Joff. Have you seen them, Ser Barristan?" The older knight jolted a little at being singled out but shook his head with a regretful look.

"I haven't I'm afraid, my prince." Gendry couldn't say why but he had a sinking feeling that something was amiss. He tried to ignore it as he ate his food and implored Myrcella to do the same but as time went on, the more that feeling rose. Halfway through his meal, he couldn't ignore it anymore. He stood up abruptly, startling Myrcella and Tommen out of their conversation and causing Joffrey to flinch.

"I'll be back."

"Gen, is everything alright?" Myrcella asked.

"Yeah, I'm just going to see what's taking Mother and Father so long. Myrcie, you’re in charge." He replied, marching out of the room stiffly, Ser Mandon on his heels leaving Joffrey’s protestations behind him unacknowledged.

He checked his mother's rooms first as it was closest but didn't find her there. He moved on to his father's chambers and then each of his parent's solars but turned up nothing. He walked aimlessly, trying to find a clue of where they could be but also half trying to talk himself into returning to the dining room. He couldn't find hide nor hair of them and he didn't like leaving Myrcie and Tom with Joff alone for so long a time. But the feeling that something was terribly wrong still held true in the pit of his stomach. He debated shortly and was making to tell Ser Mandon that they might as well return when quick shuffling and some shouting in the hallway drew his attention around a corner. He hurried quickly and was surprised to see it was the goldcloaks. They were dragging cousins Lancel, Brad and Tyrek and Uncle Tyrion through the halls while hauling a beaten Uncle Jaime bound by ropes along too.

"What is the meaning of this?" Gendry asked angrily, making his presence known.

"You will release them at once, they are the family of your queen." He said firmly. One of the guards gave him a queer look.

"They are under arrest at the order of the king. He says we're to take this lot to the Black Cells and bring the Kingslayer to him at once."

"Bring him where?"

"The Small Council chambers." His father was rarely ever in the Small Council chambers. Something drastic had to have happened, especially with him arresting those of Lannister lineage.

"I'll figure this out." Gendry promised Tyrion, who was unusually quiet and had a disturbed look on his face, before he walked ahead of the guards pulling Uncle Jaime towards the Small Council chambers, his steps thundering down the hall. Servants and guards scurried out of his way as he went ahead, and he could hear Ser Mandon's armor clanging as he tried to keep stride with him.

He could hear fists meeting flesh from down the hall and it made him break into a run as he reached the Small Council chambers. All the members of the Council were there, sitting back with disquieted looks on their face. In the middle of the room, his father stood with his mother's hair bunched up in one of his fists, the other raised to come down on her again. Gendry was shocked at the sight. He'd seen his father slap his mother before but this was different. Bruises were already starting to form over her face and he could see them through ripped sections in her dress. Her lips were bloody and swollen and her nose was obviously broken.

Gendry broke himself from his daze as his father began pounding on his mother's back, spewing all kinds of abuse at her. He ran at the two and pushed Robert roughly, catching the larger man by surprise enough for him to loosen his grip on Cersei's hair so Gendry could wrestle her away from him. He managed to push himself and Cersei some feet away before Robert roused himself and made to come at them again, looking like a raging bull as he charged at them. Gendry got up and stood protectively in front of his mother, ready to meet his father head on when the Goldcloaks entered with Uncle Jaime and his father stopped abruptly, his face turning a new kind of red with anger as he was deposited on the floor. Before his father could attack his uncle, Gendry spoke up, hoping to gain some sense out of the situation.

"Have you lost your head!?" He bellowed, catching Robert's attention.

"You dare raise your voice at me? Your balls drop and you think you can yell at me in my own home?"

"You were beating your queen, the mother of your children, as if she was nothing more than a common whore."

"She might as well be." Robert said through grit teeth, his glare returning to Cersei who wiped the blood from under her nose. She wouldn't meet anyone's gaze. Gendry turned his attention to the men sat at the table.

"Why were you all sitting there like useless sacks of nothing watching this horror? Why wasn't I called at once?" Lord Varys spoke up first.

"My Prince, several unfortunate developments have gone on as of late. We all can agree that Jon Arryn's death was most unusual in its swiftness."

"Ye-yes, most unusual indeed. No natural fever could move at-at such a speed, My Prince." Grand Maester Pycelle stuttered out, unnecessarily.

"Even more unusual for Lady Arryn to leave King's Landing before the funeral of her husband even took place."

"I, of course, have known Lysa for a long time and naturally I was concerned for her. I sent her a message but perhaps the messages she meant to send got switched somehow because rather than a reply to my message, she sent me a letter meant for her sister, Lady Catelyn Stark." Littlefinger added, that annoying smirk present on his face.

"So? What's this got to do with anything?" Gendry asked, still confused.

"Lady Arryn claims—"

"This whore you call ‘Mother’ killed Jon, a man who was as a father to me, a man who never did anyone ill!" Robert burst out, angering overtaking him once more.

"I didn't kill your precious Lord Arryn." Cersei said, her voice quieter than it ever usually was.

"Shut up, whore! I won't hear any more lies from you!" Gendry gave him a look.

"I admit Jon Arryn's illness had come on quite suddenly and progressed at an unnatural rate, but for you to accuse Mother of killing the old man based off a letter written by Lysa Arryn, Lady Arryn who still breastfeeds her thirteen-year-old son, is ludicrous. What proof do you have? And why would she want to anyway?" Gendry retorted.

"To hide the fact that she betrayed the king and fathered bastards with her twin brother in her husband's home." Uncle Renly said, sounding too satisfied to impart this information. Gendry stared at him incredulously.

"You've got to be joking."

“Afraid not. I looked into the matter myself when I caught wind of the missive Lady Lysa sent to Lord Baelish, nephew. After all, there'd be no point in bringing something this... sensitive to the king's attention without just cause. I was most thorough in examining what Jon Arryn had been up to before his death. I discovered he had been working with Stannis and I sent for my dear old brother right away. He had no problem returning to the capital to confirm my suspicions." Uncle Stannis spoke up then, finally leaving his perch by the window looking out over the city so as not to watch Robert beat his wife.

"Jon Arryn and I were examining the Baratheon lineage. At no time in history has marriage between a Baratheon and a Lannister yielded children that looked entirely Lannister. What's more, among King Robert's bastards no child born of a fair-haired mother had anything but the same dark hair and blue eyes that mark a Baratheon. Even your deceased twin brother, Steffon, had black hair and blue eyes. There is only one way all three children born after you could look entirely Lannister and not just Lannister, but Lannister of the Rock, and that was if their lineage is all Lannister. Sibling incest would explain Joffrey's madness as well much better than the distant Targaryen blood of what would have been his great-grandmother, who herself was sane." Uncle Stannis said, his voice quiet and strong with conviction.

Gendry took in the room. His father was silently fuming. Littlefinger still had that self-satisfied smirk on his face. Lord Varys' face was kept carefully blank. Grand Maester Pycelle looked entirely too riveting by the happenings. Uncle Renly looked too amused. Uncle Stannis didn't seem to feel anything through his stoicism. Gendry turned to his mother and Uncle Jaime for answers. Uncle Jaime was on his knees with that self-assured smirk he always wore, like things were going just his way. Cersei looked at the ground and still wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Mother." He said, his voice imploring.

"Tell me it's all lies. It's not true, it can't be." Cersei turned her head away as Gendry got down on his knees before her. He turned her head and forced her to meet his gaze. Her face looked worse up close and he had to will himself to look past it to see any truth in her gaze. What he saw turned his stomach.

"The Targaryens wed brother to sister for years. Jaime and I came into the world together. We belong together." She justified as Gendry pulled his hand away from her.

"He's a better man than you ever were, Robert. He didn't whore himself away our whole relationship. He didn't drink and fuck every tavern wench or lady he could find. He didn’t father bastards and bring them to my home to mingle with my children and spread their filth around. He never hit me like you, never called me some other woman's name when he was inside of me." Cersei said, her words growing more and more incensed and venomous as she went along. It was only making his father more and more angry.

"Stop talking." Gendry warned her in a low voice. Gendry turned to see his father staring down murderously at them. Gendry also couldn't help but notice his father's war-hammer laying on the Small Council table.

"What are you going to do? Kill her and bring the force of the Westerlands down on yourself?" Gendry asked.

"Not just her. Him, those three bastards she's paraded as mine and every other Lannister that I can get my hands on!" His father announced. Gendry felt fear and anger well up in him.

"You're not laying a hand on Tommen and Myrcella, they are sweet, innocent children who had nothing to do with this!" He protested.

"Those little bastards—"

"You've fathered enough bastards to start a small village, how is it any different?" Gendry retorted in anger, standing up in his father's face only to find himself on the ground in front of his mother again with the force of the punch his father landed on him.

"Speak out of turn to me again and you can die with the rest if you want. As you said, I've enough bastards to replace you." His father warned.

"Go bring those incest bastards to me." Robert told one of the guards.

"No!" Cersei burst out, showing some desperation in her finally.

"Don't Robert, please! Not my children!" His mother never begged, not to anyone, but for her children she would.

"Your Grace, p-perhaps caution would—" Grand Maester Pycelle started only to be cut off by Robert.

"Don't say another word." Robert warned him. Gendry felt his mother struggling behind him, obviously trying to stand. Gendry looked back at her to tell her not to but the look in her eyes stilled his tongue. She had something up her sleeve. He helped her to stand instead, his body still mostly shielding hers from Robert.

"If I am to die for your wounded pride, I'm not going alone. I demand equal favor for every treasonous lord in this realm." Cersei said, her voice stronger than her visage would portray.

"Too many hits in the head make your brain go soft, whore? The punishment for treason is death, plain and simple." Robert retorted.

"Is that so? What about Ned Stark?" Gendry noticed something slip through the mask Littlefinger and Lord Varys wore. His mother was on to something.

"What about Ned? Speak plainly, woman!"

"He harbors a fugitive against the crown even now, one I'm sure you'd be quite interested in: the son of Rhaegar Targaryen." Robert stared at her a moment before bursting into laughter.

"You truly must be desperate. I saw that child's corpse, his and his sister's."

"Not Elia Martell's children. Lyanna Stark's son." That got his father's attention and made the amusement drop from his face in an instant.

"What are you talking about?" His voice taking on a tone more dangerous than it had even been before.

"Hadn't you ever wondered why the last of the kingsguards were guarding a Northern girl in a Tower in Dorne with Rhaegar dead instead of protecting Prince Viserys if he were truly the heir to the throne? It's because he wasn't. Rhaegar's son with Lyanna Stark yet lived. Ned Stark took him with him to Winterfell where he claimed he was his bastard son, Jon Snow."

"Don't tell me lies about my Lyanna. You don't deserve to say her name."

"Lord Baelish knows I tell the truth." Lord Baelish kept the smirk on his face, but his eyes belied how much he didn't like to be in the spotlight in this moment.

"You'd better make sense of this quickly."

"As I said, Your Grace, I have been friends with the Tullys for some time. Catelyn Tully never knew peace in her home with Jon Snow there. The greatest mystery dear Cat ever endured was the identity of the bastard's mother. She knew my connections and asked me to look into it. It wasn't hard to figure out once you pulled a few strings loose, asked a few questions. The answer became clear: Jon Snow is not Ned Stark's bastard, but the child of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark."

"Why did you never tell me this?" His father asked, unnaturally calm.

"The situation is highly unusual and fragile, my king. I didn't want to provoke any undue action. I wanted to know the best approach to take with you, so I went to the queen to advise me on the matter and she said she'd take care of it. I believed her, Your Grace. Foolishly on my part. My humblest apologies." Gendry glared at Littlefinger's sweet talking and groveling. He watched his father walk around the room, looking for all the world like a volcano.

"Traitors! Surrounded by traitors! My own brother lies to me! Summon Ned and the bastard rapespawn here, I want that boy's head!"

"Your Grace, I must humbly ask that we approach this with as much calm as we can." Littlefinger cautioned.

"Calm?!"

"He's right. Settle down, we must approach this carefully. We don't want a war with the North and the Westerlands on our heads." Stannis added.

"Your Grace, if I may?" Varys spoke up.

"Lord Stark is an honorable man. I'm sure he felt familial obligation to ensure the safety of his sister's child despite circumstances of his conception, elsewise he'd be a kinslayer. Perhaps we should go into this as delicately and with as much understanding as the situation demands."

"What do you suggest?" Stannis asked.

"Lord Arryn was a foster father to Lord Stark as well. Summon him to the capital to pay his respects and be sure to request he bring all six of his children. All of them, except the eldest ones, are yet unmarried and all the princes are unmarried. There are quite a few bastards here to offer as wives to this Jon Snow, so it shouldn't be so suspicious an offer. If Lord Stark is as much your friend as you say, then it should not be so difficult to pry the truth from him. The punishment can fall solely on the head of the bastard rather than Lord Stark's family and war with the North can be avoided. Needless to say, we would have to act as normally as possible or they will know this could be a trap. I suggest we hold off on the legal proceedings against the Queen and her bastards until the bastard boy is dealt with." Lord Varys said, his voice sweet and unassuming. His father seemed to take in the Spider's words.

"Ned and Lyanna were always close. He had just lost his father and brother and then her soon after. Maybe grief drove him mad enough to want to hold onto one last piece of her, no matter what an _abomination_ it was. Maybe he just got in over his head and was too ashamed to ask for help. Well, I will rectify the situation now. As you will, Lord Varys. Summon Ned and all six of the children. I'll rid this planet of the stain on my precious Lyanna's memory for good and all."

"And them?" Uncle Renly asked. Father landed a glare at Mother, stood behind Gendry.

"Her chambers will be guarded day and night by men of my choosing. She is to have no private contact with anyone and is allowed no writing equipment. As soon as the bastard is dealt with, she and those children of hers will not be far behind." He turned his attention to Jaime who had been quiet. On closer inspection, Gendry realized his jaw was broken, hindering his ability to talk but he still had that smirk on his face.

"As for him, I don't need him for this plan to work." His father walked back to the table where his war-hammer laid.

"Don't look." Gendry warned his mother, but she kept her eyes trained on Robert as he charged at Uncle Jaime and brought the hammer down on his head, cracking his skull in one mighty swing. He felt his mother standing stiffly behind him, not even jumping as his father swung down on Uncle Jaime's head again and again, soon enough crushing brain matter and bone on the floor as his head was decimated. Gendry wanted to vomit right then and there. Jaime was cold to him at best, ignoring him at worst but he had still been family.

Gendry knew then and there that he needed a plan to protect and save his family and if it came at the expense of the Starks, then so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we catch up with House Stark and see how different things are for them and their reactions to King Robert's summons.


	2. Arya I

[Wynafryd](https://ken-follett.com/images/filmography/the_pillars_of_the_earth/cast/05_Hayley_Atwell_as_Aliena.jpg)

[Domeric](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Eff_HvIICqI/UiHFvVRAW9I/AAAAAAAAAz4/DyyPnZZXKPo/s1600/barnard.jpg)

* * *

Arya sat in the godswood, her head bowed in prayer as the leaves of the large weirwood rustled above her. The heart tree used to scare her and her siblings as children but now it was one of the few places in Winterfell where she knew peace, true peace.

 _'The Gods can see us, they know what we bring with us to the godswood. Lay it down before them and they will bring you peace of mind.'_ Father would say.

Arya preferred the godswood to the sept. She preferred the solitude to the septon and septa squawking about the Seven in her ears. No one tried to force her to be anything or do anything when she was here in the godswood. Here, it was just her and the gods. It wasn't going to be that way for much longer. Father received a summons to King's Landing to mourn Jon Arryn, his foster father, and to bring all six of his children so they can meet the king and his children along with the other youths at court. That might as well have been a glaring sign as to his real intention. The king had three unmarried sons, boys of twenty and one, ten and nine and ten and four. Arya wasn't yet betrothed or married.

Her older siblings hadn't escaped that fate. Sansa was ten and nine and only just recently married. That was a surprise to anyone who knew Sansa, that she hadn't married as soon as she came of age. She had been betrothed earlier. Mother wanted Sansa to be married to some Southerner, a knight or prince straight out of the songs her older sister loved to sing. There was talk for a time of a marriage to someone from the Reach, Willas Tyrell or Dickon Tarly. Sansa even fostered in Highgarden for a year, but Father brought her back home and those negotiations fell through.

She was betrothed to Ser Marq Piper, heir of Pinkmaiden Castle, for a while. He was everything Sansa had dreamed of: flowing blonde hair, blue eyes, a vision in his blue and white armor in his house's colors. As long as they were betrothed Sansa wore nothing besides House Piper's colors. Arya had never liked him any time she met him. He was hotheaded, he made fun of Arya for being a lady who wasn't really a lady, he mocked Bran’s wish to become a knight because he was Northern and followed the Old Gods and made fun of Jon for his status as a bastard. That hadn't dampened Sansa's affection for him by much. The betrothal fell through after Mother discovered he had fathered a bastard after the betrothal had been negotiated and she refused to have Sansa marry a man who would be unfaithful to her.

Her second betrothal, and eventual marriage, was to Domeric Bolton earlier in the year. He was a nice compromise between what Mother, Father and Sansa wanted. He was a Northman, but he had Southern sensibilities owed to his time fostering at the Redfort in the Vale. He loved horses and jousting and played the harp well enough to make Sansa cry. He wasn't what Arya thought Sansa pictured her husband being like. He had dark brown, curly, chin-length hair and his father's ice-blue eyes. He was not overly handsome, he looked plainer than anything else but he made Sansa smile and laugh and he didn't seem cruel like his father or like to flay any enemies any time soon. With the family accepting him on a whole, they married only two moons ago. They remained at Winterfell, the two planning to go on to the Dreadfort another moon from now except now they would have to go to King's Landing at the king's summoning.

Arya had escaped betrothals up until now. With Sansa married to Domeric, Robb now married and Rickon betrothed to Lyanna Mormont, her father wasn't overly eager to betroth any more of his children and her mother was too embarrassed by Arya to present her to anyone as a viable choice for marriage. Catelyn Stark wanted her children to marry Southern knights or lords, but those men took one look at Arya dressed in breeches and a tunic or boiled leather with her hair cut short to her shoulders and a sword or dagger on her person and that was the end of that.

Her mother tried to force her into dresses or pull her hair into Southern styles, twists and braids piled high on her head and adorned with pearls and beads and clips, but Arya dirtied or ripped all her dresses so often that to replace or repair them was more of a waste than it was worth (despite the fact that she had calmed down enough to not go rolling in the mud long before she turned ten and seven). She had purposely cut her hair when she was ten and three to dissuade anyone stuffing their fingers in it and they had taken the hint. She had kept it short ever since then. Her father had begun to procure leathers and tunics and breeches to fit her since she kept stealing Bran's clothes anyway. Her father said he didn't mind her wearing what she wanted but if they had guests or there were special occasions she was expected to wear a dress, be courteous to company and help her mother organize the feasts, living arrangements and everything else that came with guests’ arrival to Winterfell. Arya felt that was a fair trade-off. She had never been bad at running a household anyway, despite her failures at everything else ladylike so her father must’ve known the terms wouldn’t seem so harsh to her. Some days, it felt like her father was the only one who understood her. Well, her father and Jon.

That was the strangest part, that Jon was summoned to the capital as well. He was unmarried, that was true. He was twenty and two now, old enough to be married with a child or two. Arya remembered the days when he had wanted to join the Night's Watch and that was what kept him unattached, but Father had long ago forbidden him to join up. Mother had been disappointed by that. She wanted him gone for so long, but Arya never thought her father would send Jon away. Thus, she was shocked along with everyone else when he announced that Jon would go to White Harbor under the protection of Lord Wyman Manderly to be a ward there. Lord Manderly had apparently offered to take his liege's natural son in so he might hopefully learn a trade and gain a possible new course for his life that did not involve a lifelong servitude to The Wall.

Arya had been angrier than anything else and hadn't spoken to either of her parents for a while, but Jon seemed okay with leaving and he promised to write her often. He sounded content enough in his letters so she did not protest heavily, even though she was lonely. He told her about how the Manderlys allowed him to join them on expeditions across the sea to the Free Cities and further into Essos and all about what wonders he had seen. One year for her nameday, he sent her a Bravos blade as well as a dancing master named Syrio Forel. Jon had befriended the man on a trip to Braavos and he had paid him to go on to Winterfell and teach Arya. That was how she knew Jon hadn't forgotten her and she was happy to learn this new fighting style, even though Father told her never to tell her mother what the water-dancing lessons really were and she never did.

Jon visited Winterfell when he could and he was close enough with the Manderlys that one or more of them always accompanied him, not least of all being the girls. Wynafryd or Wylla or both often found their way in Winterfell by Jon's side. Arya thought they were after him at first but realized soon enough they had their eyes on a greater prize. Robb was young then and sheltered and unmarried. Wynafryd knew what she was doing. She was close enough to Jon to always be present when he and Robb spent time together without it seeming awkward or desperate. Eventually, the inevitable happened and Robb dishonored her. He would never dream of doing so and not following through so marrying her was never in question. Lord Manderly had been quite satisfied.

Arya had observed it all quietly. She was never one for scheming or politics, that was more Sansa's forte and even she didn't seem inclined to stop the Manderlys' plans. Besides, Arya liked Fryd. She was nice to Jon and didn't judge Arya for her activities and even kept some of Arya's more wilder moments secret from her mother. Fryd and Robb had born a daughter from their first encounter that they named Jonelle much to Mother’s endless sorrow and they had twin girls born to them at the turn of the new year: Arrana and Myriame. They seemed happy together and with their daughters, no matter what may have happened behind the scenes to maneuver their marriage into being or what others may say about their lack of male heirs after four years of marriage.

Neither Sansa or Robb would be necessary pawns in the South's games of marriages but inviting the heir to Winterfell and the future Lady of the Dreadfort, the two most powerful settlements in the North, could be seen as purely political. Inviting the unmarried daughter of the Lord Paramount of the North and two of his four unbetrothed sons, was different.

Arya had no wish to go south. She wasn't a lady like them. She would be forced into dresses, be made to smile and play the demure, quiet idiot who didn't know how to fight or defend herself or had any wits to herself. She had no interest in wedding a prince or even a lord. She said as much at dinner later that night.

"The king requested the presence of all six of my children, Arya. That includes you." Her father said patiently over their dinner.

"I don't want to marry any stupid prince." She retorted. She knew she sounded childish but she didn't care, this wasn't what she wanted.

“Any prince would be lucky to have you, Arya. You’ve got a good head for numbers and know how to run a household better than most anyone I know.” Wynafryd said, scooping some mash into Myriame’s mouth as Robb bounced Arrana on his knee, the brown-haired babe flailing her arms wildly as she tried to grab ahold of Robb’s curls. Arrana had developed a fascination with hair ever since she and her twin saw eight moons on Earth. Arya was sure her good-sister meant her words as a comfort, but it didn’t work.

“Who's to say it's anything to do with marriage? He asked for all six of us.” Rickon said with confusion.

“Yes, to meet his children and the other youths. It's a veiled request in many ways. For one it's an order, not a request but he also wouldn't drop the line about meeting other youths ‘of age with your children’ if his intentions were not to look about possible matches with his own children. Possibly to rectify the fact that House Stark and House Baratheon were not joined by blood as he had wanted when he was betrothed to Aunt Lyanna.” Sansa explained, sounding as patient as their father had in her explanation. She had become a woman in her own right. She was becoming quite good at being the head of a house and reading between the lines. It seemed all her stories were good for something at least. She'd be a formidable Lady of the Dreadfort when the time came, a true Northerner Arya was proud to say.

"But I'm betrothed to Lyanna Mormont and you and Robb are married, doesn't he know that?" Rickon asked.

"I haven't had contact with the king in some time. I'm not sure whether he knows that but if anything, he wouldn't be interested in you or Bran for the princess as she is betrothed to Prince Trystane of Dorne." Her father replied.

"No, he wants me to marry one of his sons and I won't. I'm no princess and I won’t be forced into being one." Arya replied stubbornly.

"The opportunity to be even considered by a prince is a high honor and you will treat it as such. You'll act according to your station in the capital, Arya. You will behave like a lady. I expect you to do so even if I won't be there to ensure it. Would that Wynafryd could go with you to make sure you act as refined as I expect you to, show you how to conduct yourself properly." Her mother said. Wynafryd shot Arya a comforting smile to soften the harshness of Catelyn’s words.

Her mother hadn’t liked the idea of Robb marrying a Northern girl in the beginning but the Manderlys had Southern heritage and even followed the Seven along with the Old Gods. Wynafryd had won her mother over by visiting the sept with her and acting the part of a Southron lady, no matter the Northern outer layer. Mother had taken to Fryd like more of a friend than a good-daughter. She also hoped the presence of another woman would suddenly help Arya gain some interest in the feminine arts like sewing and needlework and whatever else it was girls were expected to do all day. It didn’t happen and Mother didn’t know that Fryd helped Arya escape Septa Mordane’s reign of terror on a regular basis and kept secret what Syrio Forel truly taught her to do. She even kept quiet about Arya’s occasional visits into the Winter Town some nights when she felt keyed up and entrapped and wanted to get away. If her mother ever knew about her activities there, or any of her activities in the past, she’d lock her away until she was the Crone reincarnate. Mayhaps she’d construct a Maidenvault just for her and put her inside like Baelor Targaryen had done his sisters, Daena, Rhaena and Elaena (though it wouldn’t be much of a Maidenvault with no maidens inside of it).

But what Mother didn’t know couldn’t shame her, and she wouldn’t be able to stop Arya from doing what she will in the South because she would be staying behind. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell after all, and the king had requested she and her siblings specifically. Wynafryd would stay as well along with the babies, to learn what is expected of her when her husband is away and she must take care of Winterfell as Lady Stark. However, Domeric would be accompanying them.

"Why does he ask for Jon though if he is worried about marrying his sons off?" Rickon asked not unkindly, after their father’s explanation sunk in. Arya glanced over at Jon where he sat beside her, Jonelle sitting quietly in his lap and eating a half of a lemon cake Sansa had split with her. Jon’s face was kept carefully neutral, despite the discussion turning to him.

"That is a good question." Her mother muttered angrily. She was always at her happiest when Jon was away at White Harbor or at sea. All these years and she still hadn’t managed to reconcile the circumstances of Jon’s birth and the man he truly was. She seemed even more worried with Robb having no sons yet even though Jon had no children and wasn’t in Winterfell for long before he was off to the sea again. Still, she persisted in thinking the worst of him and his intentions despite all the benefits he brought to Winterfell by helping to oversee its trade with the Free Cities. Catelyn’s hatred and treatment of her favorite brother was the one thing Arya could never forgive her mother for.

"It's a wonderful opportunity for Jon." Sansa spoke up, drawing some surprised gazes. She was not as mean towards Jon or Arya lately, maturity coming to her with age. Plus, Domeric was a good influence. He didn’t treat Jon or Arya any differently because of who they were. He saw value in people based on their character and not their station. He longed for family, his always being small. Arya knew he had had a half-brother, Ramsay, once. Domeric had wanted to know him, to love him, but he was a monster and his misdeeds eventually reached Winterfell. Arya had snuck away and watched the execution from the woods. Ramsay had been raving mad about how he was the heir to the Dreadfort, how he would’ve honored their family history better than Domeric ever could. Arya didn’t realize how easily a head could be separated from a body until she watched Ice come down on Ramsay Snow’s neck and send his head rolling in one swing.

Since Sansa and Domeric had gotten together, she had slowly but surely changed for the better. Nowadays, Sansa tried to spend as much time as she could with her siblings the closer it got to her leaving for her new home. She and Jon had struck up some kind of understanding and Arya had even managed to bond with her sister, despite their differences, but Sansa was still not as close to either of them as she was to Robb or Rickon.

"King Robert is notorious to have many bastards, not a few of them being females. I have heard from some of Dom and I’s friends in the capital that there are also numerous female bastards at court who are yet unmarried. There is Joy Hill of House Lannister and Elia Sand of House Martell. King Robert’s daughters Ora and Argella Storm are a part of his household and there is also Falia Flowers of House Hewett, though she may be too low in status for my liking as Ladies Hill, Sand and Storm are from Great Houses, and bastard or not, Jon is the son of a Great Lord.”

“I hear Lady Hill has inherited some land from her father, Lord Gerion, so Jon would have to settle in the Westerlands if he were to consider her. Can you imagine it? Flatlands broken up by rocks and hills and mountains. I don’t think it would suit you, Jon. Not enough snow and you’d look horribly out of place on the grassy plains brooding on a hill in all black.” Domeric joked, causing Jon to roll his eyes and duck his head into Jonelle’s dark curls to try to hide the faint dusting of red on his cheeks. No doubt brought on by the topic of conversation.

“I don’t like the idea of throwing Jon to the lions. My friend, Margaery, says it’s best to stay well away from the Lannisters if we can help it. We won’t have much choice on the matter in the capital, infested by lions and their cubs she says. Either way, any of those women would be lucky to get the chance to marry our brother." Sansa said, nonchalantly eating her half of lemon cake but Arya knew what she was doing. Jon never had much hope to marry or have children. It was nice of Sansa to give him some for a life he never dreamed of but was within his grasp now.

"Either way, we will not know until we go to the capital. It has been some time since I've been there. We will try not to be too long." Her father said, his face troubled, as her mother silently had begun turning red at Sansa and Domeric's words. Fryd put a calming hand on her shoulder but secretly gave Jon a smile and a wink, making him blush even more furiously.

Arya tried not to think too much of the impending trip. It could all go fine, really. There was no need to worry. She had managed to turn suitors against her before, she could do it again, but something about this trip just bothered her.

"If it makes you feel any better, the men I sail with say the capital is overcrowded and the streets smell of shit." Jon said later as they laid in Arya's bed together. Nymeria and Ghost were curled up by the fireplace. Jon had come to Arya not too long ago with a flagon of wine, guessing her mood would be sour. They finished the jug between the two of them and laid down, both feeling tipsy but not drunk.

"Why would that make me feel better?"

"Maybe you'll be so focused on that, you'll forget all about the king's scheming to betroth you to any of his sons."

"Not likely." Arya retorted.

“I hear Prince Gendry is the spitting image of his father: strong and fierce and can wield a war hammer with the best of them. Prince Tommen is regarded as sweet and kind. Prince Joffrey… well, word is less kind about him but mayhaps they will not be so bad. You may like them.”

“Aye, and you may find yourself falling head over heels for some viper or lion or stag. At the very least, the whores will be yours and yours alone with Robb now married. I hear they have many whores in King’s Landing. But mayhaps I will steal one or two away from you.” She replied, knowing it would make him uncomfortable.

“Arya!” She gave him a look that clearly stated it was retaliation for his previous comment. Jon sighed in response.

"You've chased off more suitors than I honestly thought possible. I'm sure you could do it again with a couple of flowery princes so what are you so afraid of?" He asked, nudging her shoulder. Arya looked away.

“Arya?”

"I could run off the princes, sure, but what if I don't run off the king?"

"What do you mean?"

"Father says I look like Aunt Lyanna, he says it all the time. He says I act like her, everyone does. The king wanted to marry her until Prince Rhaegar kidnapped her. He's wanted to bind his family to ours by blood for years. Sansa's off the table and he's only got sons to marry off anyway. That leaves me, the girl who looks just like his lost love. He's the king, what if it doesn't matter what I want and what I say? What if it doesn't even matter if I manage to get his sons off my back and he forces us to marry anyway? Father can't refuse his king. I'll be stuck there as some prince's doll. Gods forbid, maybe even queen one day. That's not me." Arya said, the wine loosening her tongue more than she would like and causing her eyes to water as she thought in horror of what her future could hold: married to some man she didn't want or love, stuck in south in the heat to play political games she wanted no part in. No, that wasn't her at all. Jon pulled her into his side, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"I won't let anything happen that you don't want, even if we have to run away together. I have friends in Volantis, Braavos, Lys and Myr. Even as far as Ibben and the Summer Isles. If things get too much and there is no way out, we could leave and explore together just like you always wanted."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that." Both Jon and Arya jumped up to see their father standing in the doorway, a large grey shadow looming beside him. He entered the room, Frostfang only a step behind him, and eyed the empty wine flagon and their rosy cheeks but didn't comment otherwise. He sat on the end of the bed, patting Ghost and Nymeria's heads as they greeted him before returning to the fire and curling up with their mother. Frostfang was so large that she could curl around the both of them as if they were still pups.

"I know that this summons has come suddenly and we're all trying to figure out what it might mean but I hope you both know that I won't allow anything that might endanger you in the future."

"What do you mean endanger us?" Arya asked, her father's word choice sticking out to her. He sighed a little.

"Were it up to me we wouldn't go there at all. Or at the very least I wouldn't take you to such a vile place but we can't disobey a summons from the king."

"Do you truly believe this is all down to betrothals? Even for me?" Jon asked quietly. He'd grown in confidence ever since he found his niche in sailing and trading and got to explore more of the world, but there were still shades of the boy he was growing up even now that he was a man grown.

"You heard Sansa, there are quite a few viable choices for wives in King's Landing and throughout the kingdoms that Robert has to offer. Mayhaps you will find a girl you like or you may not. There is no pressure, not for either of you. We will go, I will pay my respects to Lord Arryn, we will stay for a respectable length of time and then I will tell Robert it isn't right for our family to be away from Winterfell for so long. I will tell him Robb must return to his wife and children and Sansa and Domeric must take their place at the Dreadfort and then we will leave. It shouldn't take long. All I ask is neither of you draw any undue attention to yourself. We go to a dangerous place. Every word or action anyone takes could be a calculated move and falsity for a separate end. Remember this and tread carefully." Their father warned.

"Yes, Father." Jon and Arya replied dutifully. Arya still had a sinking feeling in her gut that nothing good would come from this trip, but she took her father at his word that she wouldn't be forced to do anything she didn't want to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Mama She-wolf lives! Yay! Take that how you will.  
> The Starks have grown up largely isolated in the North (except Sansa who went away briefly and Jon) so they are different than their canon counterparts, but for the most part they are still a generally close-knit, happy family with obvious exceptions i.e Jon and Catelyn.  
> Jon does not join the Night's Watch here. There is greater explanation on how those events transpired later on so I won't give too much away but instead he's fostered in White Harbor and finds a trade and course for his life that doesn't involve freezing his balls off at the Wall. More on the Wall and their situation next chapter.  
> And yes, Arya is not a maiden. More on that later as well.  
> Next chapter will be posted Friday. The Starks arrive to King's Landing and Gendry and Arya meet.  
> Questions & Comments are welcome.


	3. Gendry II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks arrive in King's Landing. The Royal kids and the Starklings get to know a little bit about one another and Gendry and Arya have their first encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to address a concern brought up by some regarding which Stark remains in Winterfell. The Stark in Winterfell in this story is Catelyn as well as Wynafryd. I get that some of you don't like Catelyn but she is Lady Stark. Also, having the others leave will give Wynafryd a chance to establish herself to the keep and the North as the future Lady Stark, especially if something were to happen that would leave Wynafryd as the only Stark in Winterfell in the future such as a war. She needs the peoples' trust and respect. And as Ned said, they don't plan to stay in the capital for too long.

Gendry stood on the steps of the Red Keep with his family watching as the Starks' retinue entered the courtyard, the direwolf sigil blowing in the wind. It had been a moon now of waiting for them to arrive. Mother had mostly healed in that time. All that was left were yellowing bruises around her face that she covered up with make-up. Gendry's bruise from his father's punch had long disappeared. Father didn't seem any less angry about anything. He let Uncle Tyrion out of the dungeons to keep up appearances under the threat that should he try anything, Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen would pay the price. Uncle Jaime's death and his mother's injuries were deemed the result of a would-be assassin, thus keeping Lord Tywin at bay for the time being. Uncle Jaime's ashes were sent on to his lord father for proper rights, though Gendry was sure it wasn't his uncle’s actual ashes. More likely a pig's or some other animal. Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella were as clueless to the real happenings as the court was. Gendry had requested no one tell them and the Small Council agreed, not wanting rumors to spread. The kingsguards and goldcloaks would say nothing lest they end up dead too. Elia might have suspected something, she was perceptive, but she never asked, she just stuck closer to Myrcella's side than usual. Shireen, who returned to the capital alongside her father, could also tell something was off and had asked Gendry about it but he had just blamed it on his mother being attacked and his uncle dying and she accepted the explanation. Rosamund was never arrested and seemed none-the-wiser too, though she did inquire as to Lancel, Brad and Tyrek's whereabouts. The Lannister squires remained locked away in the dungeons. Gendry wasn't allowed to visit them and he, nor his siblings, were allowed to be alone with their mother.

Gendry didn't dare try anything stupid, like writing his grandfather. He knew Littlefinger and Varys were keeping eyes out on every raven. He had a rough working plan to smuggle his mother and siblings out of the capital once the situation with the Starks and the Targaryen bastard reached its inevitable climax, but the Starks were pertinent for such a plan to work.

Gendry had nearly lost his mind waiting on them to arrive, worrying that they wouldn't make it or his father would get impatient and decide to kill his family now rather than wait as per Varys' plan but both father and son managed to be patient and they were rewarded as the Starks and their men had finally arrived a month after the summons.

The party numbered 30 men, excluding the family themselves, some in armor and others in boiled leather. Other than the direwolf sigil adorning the clothing of some of the men, there was also the sigil of a flayed man on a cross. Gendry recognized it as the Bolton sigil from his teachings. He watched as what must be the Stark family stopped in the middle of the courtyard and dismounted their horses. There were seven children rather than six. Gendry wondered which one was the bastard and who the extra person was. Lord Stark led his family to the bottom of the stairs before kneeling deferentially, the group following him.

“Your Grace, my sword is yours.” The man said in a quiet tone. He was everything Gendry figured a Northman with his reputation to be. He was average height with chin length dark hair, dark grey eyes and a greying trimmed beard. He did not look particularly exceptional but there was something about the way his presence exuded calm, care and authority that was in such strong contrast to the pent up furious energy and carelessness of his father that Gendry wondered how they could ever have been friends. Maybe Lord Eddard was wilder in his youth, but the stories about him said otherwise.

Gendry watched his father stomp his way down the stairs. Gendry found himself growing nervous, not sure what kind of greeting his father would give. The plan cautioned against rash behavior but that didn’t exactly mesh with Robert Baratheon’s style. He motioned for Lord Stark to stand and he did wordlessly. His father looked Lord Stark up and down.

“You’ve gotten fat.” His father said gruffly. Lord Stark rose an eyebrow before giving his father a pointed look. Robert burst out with a jovial laugh, pulling the other man into a hug. Gendry shared a confused look with his mother, neither new to Robert’s mood swings but both unsure how to take this given what they knew about Lord Stark’s secrets.

“It’s been too long since I last saw you, Ned.”

“Aye, the Greyjoy Rebellion.”

“A good war, shorter than I would've liked." Gendry restrained an eye-roll. Only his father would say something like that and mean it. Lord Eddard didn't look like he agreed but he said nothing.

"How did it go with old Balon’s whelp anyway?”

“Theon returned to the Islands earlier this year with an envoy to stay with his uncle, Lord Harlaw, at my leave so he might learn more about the Islands he is to rule. I've had a long-time correspondence with his uncle, Rodrik, to gain the measure of the man. He is not like Balon or his ilk, he’s a better man. He will teach Theon well before he is to take his place.”

“Good." His father said dismissively. It was obvious he didn't care what kind of leader Theon Greyjoy would be, even though the Iron Islands was under his rule and could potentially kick up another costly rebellion under the wrong ruler.

"We shouldn’t have left it for so long between us, Ned. It shouldn’t have taken Jon dying to bring us together again.”

“As you say, Your Grace.”

“None of that, Ned. We aren’t here for formalities, we’re here for something much more important.” Robert said, his voice growing dark. Gendry knew whatever haze of nostalgia had fallen over him had swiftly left.

“Introduce me to your brood then.” He said, his eyes surveying the still kneeling group critically. Lord Stark motioned them to stand and went about introducing them one by one.

“This is Robb, my eldest son and heir.”

“My namesake. I hear you just had another daughter. What's that, three now? A pity. I’m sure the next will be a boy, don't worry over it too much.” Robb Stark looked a little dumbstruck at the blatant comment but roused quickly enough.

“Jonelle is smart and clever already at only three years of age. Arrana and Myriame are wonders on their own. My wife, Wynafryd, and I are not disappointed with my girls at all. They'll grow to be fierce warriors and leaders, my girls.” Lord Robb said with clear admiration and love for his daughters. He seemed like he meant what he said, but Gendry knew most people were liars, he just didn’t know the Starks’ tells yet. His father moved on to a tall red-haired girl whose arm was looped through a tall dark-haired boy.

“This is my daughter Sansa and her husband, Domeric of House Bolton.”

“That’ll explain the flayed banners. Not carrying any skins in your trunk, are you?”

“We left that trunk at home, Your Grace.” Lady Sansa replied almost immediately with a perfect smile, sharing a laugh with the king while her husband shifted uncomfortably at the insinuation. Lord Brandon and Lord Rickon were introduced next. Both boys greeted the king with an air of disappointment about them. Gendry could understand the sentiment easily enough having been disappointed by his father for years. Finally, he reached the last two Starks. The man looked to be around Lord Robb’s age but looked much more like Lord Stark than his heir did with dark curly hair and dark grey eyes. He was shorter than his uncle and cousin were, but he looked more like a Stark than a Targaryen. If he wasn’t introduced by Lord Stark as Jon Snow, Gendry wouldn’t think he was. He wondered if what his mother said had been a lie then. He didn’t look how Targaryens were said to look: white-blonde hair, purple eyes, tall and lanky. Jon Snow looked like a Northman. Maybe they brought a pretender rather than the real Targaryen bastard. However, the way his father stared at the bastard with the intensity of the sun behind his gaze told him that he saw something in him that Gendry would not know to look for.

The courtyard was silent for too long, the king staring at the bastard without saying anything at all. Gendry thought his father was going to cut the man down right then and there and then a voice broke through the staring contest.

“Is something wrong with your eyes?” A voice said, cutting through the yard. Now they stared appalled at the girl who stood half concealed behind Jon Snow, her hand clutching his.

“Arya.” Lord Stark reprimanded harshly. His father tore his eyes from the bastard to look at the girl.

“Who’s this?”

“That is my youngest daughter, Arya.” Lord Stark introduced, though he sounded reluctant to do so. The girl stepped out from behind the bastard into the light just as reluctantly. Gendry stiffened up a little at seeing her. She was a looker to say the least. She wasn’t a traditional beauty, there was something wild about her right off the bat. She was dressed in riding trousers and a tunic with a short cape, her hair cut short. She didn’t look like a proper lady at all, but he felt a stirring in his loins despite that. He shoved it away. Now wasn’t the time to worry about his libido, there were more important things. As he refocused, he saw his father was staring as intently at Lady Arya as he had been at Jon Snow.

“Your Grace?” Lord Stark asked, trying to gain the king’s attention.

“Lyanna.” Robert said, staring mystified. Lady Arya’s eyes flashed with what might be both fear and indignation before she straightened up and addressed the king.

“No, I am not Lyanna, though I hear often how I resemble her. I am Arya Stark, Lyanna Stark’s niece.” She said, saying her own name in a hard, emphatic tone that was clearly meant to say that she did not appreciate being called Lyanna and didn’t want to be viewed as such. The king still stared down at her before Lord Stark approached him and lightly touched his arm.

“Robert, perhaps you should introduce us to your family.” The king snapped out of it and looked back with a glare as Gendry, his mother and siblings remained on the steps.

“Your legs broken? Get down here.” He barked after them. Myrcella went ahead of them, floating down the stairs with grace despite the harsh summons. It wasn’t anything she was unused to. Tommen followed her like a puppy with Joffrey swaggering down uncaringly. Gendry assisted his mother down the stairs partly because such strenuous an activity still hurt her bruised ribs, and partly so he could shield her if necessary.

Myrcella was already curtsying and charming the Starks when they reached the bottom.

“Congratulations on your recent marriage, Lady Sansa. I had wanted to attend your union but my mother forbade it. I was quite interested to learn what a marriage under the Old Gods looked like. Would that we could’ve met sooner. My good-aunt, Lady Margaery, has told me so much about you. I feel like I practically know you already.” His sister, _half-sister_ his mind whispered viciously, gushed.

“Well, thank you Princess. I’m sure we’ll be great friends.” Myrcella smiled with a pleased expression. Mother offered her hand to Lord Stark to kiss upon their greeting, the two exchanging cool hellos. Gendry didn’t know their history but there was obviously no love lost between the two, not that that would’ve mattered at all to Cersei if it meant he was sacrificed to save her life and those of her children.

“What are those?” Joffrey said, his voice full of both disgust and fear. Gendry followed his gaze and saw seven massive wolves come padding out of multiple caged carts, scaring the servants who had been taking the Starks’ belongings into the castle.

“They’re our direwolves.” Lord Rickon replied proudly as a black monstrosity with unsettling green eyes came bounding up to his side, licking the little lord’s cheek. The beast was as tall as the youngest Stark, would be almost twice his height if it stood up on its back legs. It growled and barked at Joffrey as he made a sound of derision causing him to jump and yelp in a high tone. The sound pulled smiles of amusement out of Gendry, Myrcella, Tommen and the Starklings.

“They’re unnatural beasts.” Joffrey said, straightening his clothes as the other wolves padded up to the Stark that must be its owner and slotted themselves by their side.

“They’re family.” Lady Arya corrected in a hard tone.

“Don’t do things by half, do you Ned? Whatever happened to a dog or a bird for a pet? I’m not likely to go giving out stags to every child I ever squirt in a woman’s belly, though we may not have enough deer in the world.” His father joked bawdily. Lord Stark didn’t seem amused.

“The direwolf is the sigil of my house and the Starks have long had a history of kinship with them. They were companions to the Kings of Winter long before Aegon the Conqueror’s grandfather was born. The wolves have served my house well and protected us from many enemies.” Lord Stark said quietly as the largest of the wolves, a grey giant with white interspersed in its fur, stopped beside Lord Stark. The she-wolf had blue eyes the color of the waters of Tarth and it was so tall that it stood eye to eye with Gendry. It stared hard at him, like it could see right through him, straight into his soul. It made him shudder. The beast made to step towards him but Lord Stark stopped it,

“Frostfang.” Lord Stark said quietly. The wolf looked up at its master and the two had some kind of quiet conversation between them before the wolf took two steps back, looking away from Gendry to survey the courtyard critically.

“We’ve had guest chambers prepared for you and yours. The barracks are available for your men to reside in. We’ve already cleared space for them.” His mother said, her tone emotionless and lack-luster, though she gave the direwolves lingering looks of displeasure. She didn’t bother putting on airs, she hadn’t bothered since Uncle Jaime’s death. Lord Stark made to start up the stairs to follow the servants to their rooms but Robert stopped him.

“No, come with me.” Gendry felt a moment of panic, but his mother squeezed his hand in warning to stay calm.

“We should see Jon as soon as we can.”

“Surely you’ll send him on to the Vale to be buried with his ancestors?” Lord Stark asked, troubled that Lord Arryn remained in King’s Landing.

“Yes, yes of course. I only held off so you can pay your respects to the man. His ashes will be sent to his wife and son. Come, he’s waited long enough for you.” Lord Stark looked reluctant to leave his family but followed his father up the stairs, Frostfang trotting by the Northern lord’s side.

“We can show you to your chambers.” Tommen offered the abandoned Stark children. Myrcella nodded in agreement. Gendry would’ve stayed with his mother if she didn’t push him towards the Starks and subsequently latch on to Joffrey’s arm before he could escape as he was intent to do.

“We all can.” Gendry said through grit teeth. He didn’t want to spend any more time with the Starks than necessary, but he was loath to refuse his mother anything at the moment. Robb Stark nodded in reply.

“Thank you. It’d be most appreciated.” The three siblings began up the steps, the Starks following them. It was an awkward walk as none of them knew the other. They made small talk between them, broken up by pleasantries and compliments switched between Lady Sansa and Myrcella but otherwise it remained tense until Lord Brandon spoke up quite suddenly.

“You know Ser Barristan Selmy, don’t you?” He asked, some barely concealed excitement in his voice. His voice had dropped, merged into the voice of a man. He couldn’t have been any younger or older than Tommen, but at fourteen Tommen’s voice remained more childlike than anything else. The contrast in his voice’s timber and tone made for an odd sound.

“We do.” Gendry confirmed shortly.

“He’s one of the best knights to ever live, truly. The best still living.” Tommen replied, ready to heap tons of praise onto the old knight.

“Oh, I know. I ask our maester, Luwin, to tell us stories all the time. My favorite is his rescue of Mad King Aerys during the Defiance of Duskendale.” Lord Brandon said, clear admiration in his voice.

“And his feats during the War of the Ninepenny Kings cannot be downplayed at all either. He practically ended the war when he slayed Maelys the Monstrous.” Tommen replied, sounding equally as dazzled. Gendry and Myrcella shared a look. Tommen’s love and admiration for the man was widely known and once he got started he hardly ever stopped. If he had found a soul that shared his enthusiasm and even possibly matched it, then the Gods help them and Ser Barristan for they would surely bombard and overwhelm the man. He heard a huff of amusement behind him and saw Jon Snow watching his cousin with fondness. He noticed Gendry looking and offered him a shy smile. Gendry looked away. If his plan was to work and he was to save his family, then the Starks would suffer and Jon Snow would die. Gendry didn’t like it but for his family, he would make the sacrifice.

“Prince Gendry?” A quiet voice asked. Gendry was surprised to see it was Jon Snow who had called to him. Snow was as quiet as his direwolf, who he was told was named Ghost.

“Yes?”

“Did I do anything to offend your father?” Gendry gave him a confused look.

“Just he didn’t seem happy to welcome me to the castle. I would not have come but he did invite all six of my father’s children. I hope my presence isn’t an insult to he or any in your family.” Gendry wasn’t sure how to reply. Thankfully, Myrcella was quick to pick up the slack.

“Not at all. My half-sisters, Amarei and Marissa work in my service but are as much my siblings as my brothers are. And my other half-sisters, Ora and Argella, though servants, are welcomed here by Father as well. It would be a hard thing for him to be prejudiced to bastards when so many of his children are bastards. I apologize if he seemed of a mood to you all. He has been that way since our mother was attacked and our uncle killed.”

“We heard about that. We’re terribly sorry for your loss, Princess. We lost our uncle recently as well.” Lady Sansa said, her voice conveying just the right amount of sympathy and understanding. Mother always said Northerners were savages and uncouth barbarians no better than animals. Men and women who were unclean and unrefined and unlearned in the superior ways of the South. People who worshipped trees and probably shared their beds with bears and wolves and other creatures. Lady Sansa seemed as well-versed in the ways of courtly courtesies as any Southerner but then Myrcella said she was friends with Lady Margaery and Gendry’s good-aunt was the definition of courtly perfection.

“Stop telling people Uncle Benjen is dead, he’s just lost beyond The Wall.” Lady Arya said brashly, her direwolf reacting to its master’s displeasure by baring its teeth. Lady Arya captured Gendry’s attention with that small comment alone. She had been silent the whole time, not engaging in any idle chatter, not making any compliments, not paying much attention to any of them. She didn’t look impressed with the castle and seemed bored more than anything else, but she got fired up about this. It created a light to her eyes, the fury she obviously felt about her uncle who was either dead or not dead. It made her more attractive than she looked at first glance but again, Gendry pushed the thought aside.

“He’s been lost beyond The Wall for four years now. Mance Raydar has said he hasn’t seen him and no one in the Clans have reported sightings of him when they crossed the gates into Brandon’s Gift and The New Gift. If he is still alive, he must have quite the tale to tell.” Lord Robb replied. Lady Arya didn’t look any less convinced that her uncle lived.

“Maybe he found some place he liked better to live.”

“Beyond The Wall in the Lands of Always Winter? The same lands the Freefolk just fled from?” Lord Robb retorted incredulously.

“Doesn’t have to be that far north. Some of the Clans remain by Milkwater and Giant’s Stairs along with the Cave Dwellers and I hear they still have a few active settlements on Hardhome.”

“You never know. Maybe Benjen’s fallen in with some clan who has yet to pass the gates. Maybe he has found love beyond The Wall but because it goes against his oaths and societal norms, he has just elected to stay in the Far North rather than face any consequences, like Moira Umber did.” Lord Domeric offered, seemingly backing Lady Arya up but there was amusement dancing in his eyes that said he didn’t believe those words but said them to appease her. Robb, Arya and Sansa Stark all opened their mouths to say something, but their cousin beat them to it.

“We shall know Uncle Benjen’s fate when we know, when the Gods allow us to know and not before so there is no point arguing over it.” Jon Snow said, his voice as quiet and strong as Lord Stark’s and the siblings fell silent. It was strange how they listened to him as if he were their equal, the man they perceived as their half-brother. Gendry loved his siblings, those he knew and those he didn’t, but he didn’t think Edric would have the gumption to chastise him or, however politely, tell him to shut up and Gendry didn’t think he’d receive it well if he did.

“Sorry, you mentioned the Freefolk and the Wildlings? What’s the difference?” Myrcella asked with confusion.

“All the Clans beyond The Wall consider themselves free folk. We call the people who came from beyond The Wall to settle in the Gifts Freefolk and refer to those who stayed as Wildlings. But even then, there’s a difference between Wildlings who may not physically be able to leave or just don’t want to leave their homes and lives behind and those who are raiders and thieves and rapists. We try to help the ones who stay as best we can: bring them supplies and offer what protection we are able to. The men of the builder order along The Wall, along with Winterfell’s masons and carpenters have helped to shore up and rebuild what abandoned settlements we know of North of The Wall, but it is hard to protect them as much as we would like.” Lord Robb replied, sounding genuinely frustrated about the people he couldn’t help, people who were his enemy or were supposed to be.

“But why’d they cross The Wall anyway?” Gendry asked. The Starks siblings looked between themselves as if debating an answer.

“To escape winter.” Lord Brandon answered ominously. Gendry stared after the group questioningly, he felt there was more to it than that.

“You wouldn’t understand.” Lady Arya told him, seemingly picking up his thoughts. She wasn’t looking at him. Her interests were in the paintings on the wall: tapestries of Baratheon history going back to the Durrandons and Storm Kings. Her greatest interest was in the left side of the hall which held the paintings and tapestries of Argella Durrandon, the Storm Queen. There was upwards of a dozen or more dedicated to the legendary Storm Queen, the mother of House Baratheon as it was now. All the artwork was commissioned, or even created, by Myrcella. She wasn’t much of a warrior, his sister. She preferred to wield a sewing needle than anything else and it had taken the combined efforts of Gendry and Elia to convince her to at least learn archery, but Myrcella had always taken an interest in that particular ancestor of theirs (his, because she wasn’t Myrcella’s ancestor at all, but Gendry pushed the thought away). The paintings and tapestries depicted Queen Argella as fierce and strong and defiant in the face of dragons, showing her before she was betrayed, stripped and brought low. Lady Arya seemed to have taken an interest in them.

“What do you mean? How would you know?” Gendry asked, bristling a little at her words. Lady Arya shrugged uncaringly, still not looking at him.

“You’re Southron, there’s little you could understand about the North and how things work there.” She said like it was the most basic, simple truth ever. It annoyed Gendry. It annoyed him more that she paid no attention to him, like he was a bug to be flicked off her shoulder. Before he could retort, Myrcella announced that they had arrived at the Starks’ chambers.

“All the rooms are available to you, six rooms.”

“What about our father?” Lord Robb asked.

“King Robert had his room made special. It’s closer to the king’s chambers should he have need to call on Lord Stark.” Myrcella explained.

“So, what you’re saying is Father won’t be around our rooms?” Lord Rickon asked, a mischievous grin growing on his face.

“But we will be.” Lady Sansa replied, a stern, almost motherly look on her face.

“Suffice to say, you’ll have the middle room along with Arya since you two are the most troublesome. That way we might keep an eye on you.” Lady Sansa continued, garnering an outraged cry from her sister.

“And naturally, I shall have the room with the biggest bed since it will be shared between Dom and I.” She continued, her nose high.

“Hey! I should get the biggest bed.” Lord Robb protested.

“And why’s that?”

“I’m older and Father’s heir.”

“And?”

“Well, I suppose we’ll just have to see who gets there quicker.” Lord Robb retorted, bolting towards the rooms, his wolf on his tail as if he was not a man grown with a wife and three children. Lady Sansa looked like she didn’t want to break from her proper composure but ended up chasing after her brother to inspect the rooms, her own wolf and husband following at a sedate rate. Gendry motioned his siblings to leave the Starks to their devices. Jon Snow bowed at the group as he was the only one who didn’t run to get the best of the rooms and waited patiently for the scrambling to finish so he’d get the last room left.

“Thank you again for welcoming us to your home.” He said. Gendry felt a clench and shift at the politeness, but he pushed it aside. He was just as much Lannister as Baratheon, he could put personal feelings aside for the good of his family. He had to.

“Of course. I hope your stay will be comfortable.” Gendry replied, lying through his teeth before practically dragging Myrcella and Tommen away.

“What did you think of them? I liked them.” Myrcella announced once they were far enough away.

“They seem nice. Their wolves are scary though. I prefer cats. I wonder if Ser Pounce will like the direwolves.” Tommen replied.

“Best be careful or else Ser Pounce will become a meal.” Gendry warned absentmindedly. Tommen’s face turned up in horror and Myrcella shot him a glare for the careless comment. Gendry’s mind was racing with more thoughts than he cared to decipher not least of all Arya Stark’s aloofness towards him, his father’s foreign countenance with Lord Stark, his family’s predicament and Jon Snow’s politeness. What was he supposed to do with all of this?

**~*~*~**

They held a feast in honor of the Starks’ arrival, not that his father ever needed a reason to hold a feast. All of the Starks sat at the high table, including Jon Snow. The food and drinks were plentiful and the atmosphere merry, but Gendry’s mood remained as stormy as Shipbreaker Bay. Around him people laughed and danced, all oblivious to the wildfire keg that was slowly getting ready to explode. His father seemed mollified by drink and constant conversation with Lord Stark, not paying attention to the Targaryen bastard who made himself scarce as soon as was appropriate, though King Robert did steal glances at Arya Stark every now and again.

The feast had now moved past eating into drunken revelry and dancing. Gendry had stayed planted on the dais beside his mother as Joffrey left to alternate between blatantly flirting with Lady Margaery and Lady Sansa, both married women, and harassing whoever else he set his sights on. Myrcella had drifted over to where Ora and Argella were meant to be serving the crowd and had dragged them into conversation along with Rosamund and Shireen. Tommen was dragging a blushing and protesting Lord Brandon towards Ser Barristan.

Gendry didn’t mind staying on the dais. Usually, he’d be there among the crowd flirting with whatever women caught his fancy and exchanging banter with his friends and acquaintances, but he didn’t want to leave his mother’s side, not now. His mother didn’t seem to appreciate the concern.

“Go.” She ordered with little feeling in her voice.

“But—”

“I need to breathe. I need to think. I can’t do it with you smothering me as if I were your child and not the other way around.” She continued, sipping her wine. Her goblet was almost empty now. Before he could protest anymore, a hand came forward and topped up her goblet wordlessly. His Uncle Tyrion appeared from behind his mother as if he’d been standing there the whole time.

“You heard her. Shoo, I can keep her company. Besides, Robert isn’t like to pay her or anyone else any mind with Ned Stark here.” Gendry looked between the brother and sister. They never liked one another, or rather his mother hated his uncle and so he didn’t like her. However, his mother didn’t protest to Tyrion taking Gendry’s seat as he stood up. He sighed and made to walk away but his mother latched on to his hand.

“Talk to the Stark girl. You saw how Robert reacted to her, I don’t want her in the way.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Just… talk to her. Learn what you can about her and her family and then come back to me.” Gendry nodded with some reluctance before glancing around the room for Arya Stark. It took longer than he would’ve liked to find her, but he blamed it on her small stature as he eventually caught sight of her blending into the shadows off to the side watching the dancing crowd disdainfully. Gendry took a deep breath and walked towards her like marching towards his own death. He put on his charming smile, the one that usually made the ladies go mad, but as she saw him approaching her Lady Arya’s face turned up in what could only be described as disgust.

“My lady.” He said, imbuing respect and affecting a deeper tone of voice that usually made people take greater interest.

“I’m not a lady.” Lady Arya snapped back at him. Gendry gave her a queer look at that.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said.” He wanted to press the matter, but he pushed that aside.

“I had wanted to ask you to dance.”

“Don’t bother.”

“What?”

“The answer’s no.” She continued briskly, her eyes remaining trained away from him. She hadn’t given him so much as a glance since he stepped up to her. It annoyed him.

“Is something wrong with your feet?” Gendry asked, his dower mood expressing itself in his voice.

“Is something wrong with yours, or is it just your ears? This is the part where you walk away.” Lady Arya replied, not skipping a beat in her reply.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused. Feel free to leave my presence.”

“You realize I’m a prince, right?”

“I should hope so, elsewise you wouldn’t have much of an excuse for that hunk of metal around your forehead.” Gendry couldn’t help chuckling then, incredulity coloring the sound.

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Says who?”

“Says… everyone.”

“Well, I’m not everyone.”

“Obviously not. The boys back home must love you. Suitors must be lining up at the door to marry you.” Gendry replied, sarcasm heavy in his voice. He’d never met anyone as annoying as Arya Stark before in his life.

“That’s the point.” Lady Arya mumbled under her breath but otherwise didn’t answer. She stood staring into the distance for a while before her nose wrinkled.

“You’re still here? Don’t you have better things to do than stare at me like you’re touched in the head?” Gendry scoffed in response.

“You’re right, you’re not a lady.”

“Thanks for noticing. I try.” She replied, a sarcastic tilt to her mouth. Gendry shook his head. His mother would just have to dig up more dirt about the Starks another way.

“Probably can’t dance anyway.” Gendry muttered turning to walk away.

“I didn’t say that.” Lady Arya retorted just as Gendry turned.

“What?”

“I didn’t say I couldn’t dance, I just said I didn’t want to dance with you.” She clarified, a defiant tilt to her chin. Gendry smirked internally. She was prideful. So maybe he wasn’t down for the count just yet.

“How would I know? I haven’t seen you dance with anyone tonight, not even your brothers.”

“My brothers are occupied.” She retorted, her gaze darkening as she swept over her brothers’ positions. Robb Stark had engaged in a drinking contest with some of the guards as it would be unseemly of him to dance too long with the women present without his wife here. Jon Snow had tried to escape the feast, but Elia was standing in front of him blocking the exit with an impish grin, seemingly having found her next victim. Brandon Stark was talking animatedly to Ser Barristan alongside Tommen, and now Shireen. He was certain he caught sight of Rickon Stark under the food table pushed to the side grabbing meat and pulling it under the tablecloth with a mass of black fur residing with him: his direwolf.

“Maybe they just know you won’t be able to dance anyway and your sister has her husband so they decided not to bother with you.” Gendry suggested nonchalantly.

“I said I can dance!” She protested more fiercely. Gendry shrugged in reply.

“I guess I’ll never know.” Lady Arya glared at him.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean. Perhaps it’s a good thing you refused, I’d hate to have my feet trampled anyway. I’ll just find Myrcella and get a dance from her.” Gendry moved to walk away again but Lady Arya grabbed his hand and started dragging him out to the dancefloor. Gendry let himself smirk as she led him roughly.

“If I step on your toes, it’s on purpose.” She announced, turning towards him and taking position as the minstrels began playing "Meggett Was a Merry Maid, a Merry Maid Was She". Lady Arya clasped his hand and, surprisingly, allowed him to lead their dance. She was also surprisingly graceful and light on her feet, allowing him to lead her in their dance with ease, never once looking down at her feet as they moved. Gendry nodded with an impressed look.

“I suppose some of the ladies’ lessons stuck with you then.” He meant it as a slight, but she didn’t take it that way. She smiled a secretive smile instead.

“I had a good dancing master.” She replied easily. That was the first he’d seen her smile at all since she arrived, even though it was a small one. It was a nice smile.

He glanced down at her, taking in her appearance for the first time. She had been mostly in shadows before and he didn’t pay attention to her when they sat at the high table, so he didn’t see her fully but in the light of the torches aligning the wall he saw that she was wearing a dress rather than breeches. It was a corseted grey gown, a style that featured more prominently in Essos than in Westeros. The bodice was embroidered with blue winter roses along with white pearls accenting the design. The ends of her sleeves had winter rose petals embroidered onto it but also wolves chasing after the petals. The dress fell down improperly to just above her ankles, revealing the brown boiled-leather ankle boots she wore rather than something more suited to ladies like doveskin slippers. Her hair was softly curled so it hung just past her ears. She didn’t wear any make-up besides a bit of dark lipstain unlike the other women did, but she didn’t need any. She looked gorgeous. Gendry couldn’t help but say as much to her. She stared at him like she was expecting there to be some punchline to his compliment. When none came, she shrugged lightly.

“My brother, Jon, is a sailor. He’s even got his own ship now, _Lycaon_ , the word for wolf in the Old Tongue. He visits Essos frequently. He picked up the design for the dress in Lys. He thought Sansa might like it. She made this dress for me for the feast, among others.” She replied, her voice veering on fondness when talking about her siblings. He figured this was good middle ground to get her to keep talking.

“Have you travelled with him at all?”

“Three times. Once when I stowed away on his boat and the two times with Robb as my escort since my mother apparently didn’t trust Jon to look out for me, or trust me to look out for myself.” She replied, her tone gaining some anger and indignation.

“I’m guessing your mother is protective.” He replied flatly.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“No, I understand. Imagine being a prince in a realm where half the people are still loyal to a dynasty that your father helped kill. Plus, Cersei Lannister is my mother. If it were up to her, all of us would remain in this keep for our whole lives, never far from her side.” Gendry retorted. It was true. Cersei had always held her children close to the vest, none more so than Joffrey though.

“I know, trust me. My mother must be going mad now with all of us gone. Though if Bran had stayed, she’d probably be mollified. He’s her favorite.” Lady Arya replied, her tone both envious and resigned.

Gendry knew most mothers would never like to say that they had a favorite child, even if they did but it was obvious which order in which Cersei cared for her children. Joffrey was her favorite by far. He was the one who was the most like her, the one who looked the most like her too. She only saw the good in him despite the fact that he was a cruel, whiny brat who was already half mad and was probably not more so simply because he didn’t have as much power as he would if he were the heir. Gendry could bar him from doing certain things if he felt it endangered others and Joffrey feared him enough for his words to stick but he always worried about the day when his words were not enough and he’d have to use action against his brother.

Myrcella was his mother’s second favorite, as the only girl. She probably hoped to impart all her wisdom onto Myrcella, but she was too sweet to take any of her mother’s cruelty or methods of persuasion to heart. Still, she remained the second favorite.

After her came Gendry. Gendry knew sometimes his mother did not like him, probably because he looked like his father. Sometimes she didn’t want him in her presence but others she did. Others she dragged him to her rooms to talk to him, to make sure his father wasn’t pressuring him too much and that the council wasn’t running rough-shod over him. She probably had some alternative reasons for it, but Gendry also liked to believe it was because she cared for him and loved him.

Tommen came a close last. Not for lack of any love she bore him but because she found his naiveté grating and he was much like a stranger to her. Sweet but also clueless and kinder than she would like him to be. She thought he was weak and he preferred the company of their Uncle Tyrion above all others in their family which she could never forgive. However, he was still her son so she still loved him.

Lady Arya seemed to misconstrue his silence in some way.

“Not that she doesn’t love all of her children. She’s a great mother, my mother. Yes, she is unfair to Jon, but she takes care of all of us as best she can. She just worries over us too much sometimes.” Lady Arya said, defending her mother against some made up foe in her mind.

“It’s alright. I wasn’t judging your mother. I was thinking about mine. She isn’t exactly thrilled about my father’s bastards and he’s got exponentially more than your father.” A statement that was made all the truer, considering Lord Stark didn’t actually have any bastards.

“I was also just thinking that I’m not my mother’s favorite either, so we’ve got that in common at least.” Gendry replied in a reassuring enough tone.

Lady Arya stared at him for a moment, her gaze scrutinizing before she came to some realization Gendry wasn’t privy to and made to pull away from him. Just as she did, the band struck up ‘A Cask of Ale’… for the third time that night. Even still, his father’s joyous roar as his favorite song played didn’t fail to rise above the crowd.

It was a lively song, the dance required involving a lot of hops, spins and energy. The couples on the floor had danced to it enough to be tired but they still went about the dance. The couple dancing next to them bumped into them as the couples on the floor took formation and began galloping in a circular motion. Gendry and Lady Arya had no choice but to follow the crowd or else be run over or caught up in the dancers. The high energy of the dance didn’t leave much time to talk any more. The dance called for a partner switch and Lady Arya twirled away right into the arms of the bastard, Elia twirling into Gendry’s. She greeted him with a lascivious grin, but Gendry’s eyes tracked Lady Arya. Something had changed.

He saw her having some kind of debate with Jon Snow. Snow cast his eyes over at Elia and Gendry before looking back to Lady Arya and nodding. The two began twirling and sliding away from the dancers until they managed to escape the dancefloor and then continued out of the Hall altogether. Elia turned around and noticed them walking out before turning to Gendry.

“Aww, what’d you do? I was going to have him.” She said with something of a pout.

“I don’t know.” Gendry replied, genuinely confused. He decided to shake it off. He’d gotten enough information from her that he could take it back to his mother and mayhaps she’d find something to do with it. He needn’t interact with Arya Stark again after tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take talk of The Wall and the Wildlings how you will. Mostly, that was a way to set up what the Starks have been doing with their time since the books don't happen in this AU, or at least events have been severely pushed back.  
> White Walkers and Wights do exist but they won't be in this story and they are a threat that will remain much further down the line in this timeline within my own head. I have no plans of getting into the mystical or fantastical with them. Just know they exist somewhere, the Starks are aware of the threat and have taken measures to diminish their ranks by allowing Wildlings/Freefolk past the Wall.  
> Also, this is probably the longest chapter of this story. At least it's the longest so far. Most of the chapters are not and will not be this long, more so in the 3k - 4k realm unless it's a big one, so fair warning.  
> Comments and Questions are welcome.


	4. Arya II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry have a second encounter.

The capital was just as Arya feared it would be: dull, hot, venomous, boring. The ladies tittered about like birds, worse than Sansa in her youth. Gossip might as well be a currency here and as the newcomers the Starks were a constant source of gossip, Arya not least of all for her activities.

She lasted all of two days before she found herself in the practice yard. The knights, squires and men-at-arms gave her queer looks of amusement when she picked a spot for herself and started stretching, dressed in breeches with a jerkin over a tunic. She had Needle strapped to her waist on one side and her Valyrian steel dagger with its dragonbone handle on the other. Robb, who had already been there sparring with a man with dark goldish-red hair, approached Arya to spar without prompting. He was sure to use live steel against her knowing the importance of the moment. This would be Arya's one shot to make a lasting impression on these men who probably only saw her a little girl wanting to play at swords.

She pulled Needle out of her belt to the snickers of some of the men. They stopped laughing as she and Robb began sparring. Robb was brute strength in his technique and so Arya was quick and played the defensive to tire him out before striking the supposed killing blow. Robb yielded easy enough with a smile. They sparred many times before at Winterfell in the secrecy of the godswood or after dark in the training grounds when they were sure that their mother was asleep or well away from them. Arya beat him more times than not but only just. She had bested Bran and Rickon more times than she had Robb and bested Jon less times than any of her other brothers but still had bested them all at one point or another, including the guards, Domeric, the Manderly brothers and Ser Jory.

Some in the yard gave her an impressed look after Robb yielded, some a look of derision still and others grumbled that her brother let her win, despite the clear skill on display from them both. Prince Joffrey's voice was the loudest in that group.

"Please, I bet she'd faint at the first sight of real blood. Her and that mummery of a sword." Arya looked up and glared over at the prince wearing practice padding but with no sheen of sweat on him surrounded by Lannister squires and young knights around his age along with his sworn shield, Sandor Clegane.

"Why would I faint at the sight of blood? Women see more blood than men do. Definitely more than you're likely to see in your life. But then again, perhaps not." Robb hid a smile. He was well-versed in Arya's untamable mouth by now and didn't bother reprimanding her. Some of the men in the yard laughed openly at her insinuation while others gaped at her like she was a foreign entity.

Arya didn't like Joffrey Baratheon the moment she met him. The way he had stared at the direwolves with disgust was more than enough to put her off him. Besides that, he treated Jon like trash, he talked down about the North on a regular basis, he disrespected her father and Robb and had made multiple unwelcome advances on Sansa with Domeric there. That was all in the span of two days. No, she couldn't stand him but knowing her luck she'd be betrothed to him.

 _I'd kill him if I ever married him_ , she thought, knowing it was true.

 _I’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen here and now_.

"It seems they were right about you Northerners being dumb and uncouth if you don't even know better than to talk to your prince in such a way." Prince Joffrey retorted angrily. It brought to mind Prince Gendry’s incredulity at her behavior towards him but he wasn’t like his brother, at least he didn’t seem that way. Robb bristled in response, anger showing clear on his face, but Arya shrugged in response.

"You are certainly _a_ prince, whether I claim you as mine or not. The again, princes aren’t exactly rare. I’ve met my fair share and I was more impressed with them. Besides, your brother's the heir to the throne and if he takes after your father in other departments besides looks he'll have more than enough children. So, you'll never sit on the throne.” Prince Joffrey was turning red from anger now, obviously not used to being talked to in such a way.

“Playing a dangerous game there, little girl.” Sandor Clegane told her, almost like a warning, but Arya brushed it off.

“Maybe. But those are the best ones. And as for your earlier comment about my blade, Prince, I'm certain it's seen more combat than your perfect, shiny, new sword. Needle has seen battle and blood and taken lives when it's needed to. Has yours?" She challenged.

"You expect me to believe you've killed before?" The prince replied, a clear deflection.

"Doesn't matter what you believe, doesn't make it less true." She replied, already bored with the go around with the prince. Arya had fought against True Wildlings and infiltrators during the transition. She'd even fought pirates when she snuck onto Jon's ship and stowed away. Some prissy little prince who looked more feminine than she did wasn't going to scare her off.

"If that's so then spar against me, with live steel since you're such a deadly killer with your butter knife." The squires laughed at his weak joke. Arya rose an eyebrow.

"You sure you want to do this?" She asked. The golden prince drew his sword in response. Arya shrugged internally and turned side-face with Needle out.

"Arya—" Robb started.

"I'm doing this." Arya said, cutting him off.

"I was only going to tell you to kick his ass." Arya let a wolfish grin break through her unflappable exterior. The man Robb had been sparring with came forward, seemingly to referee the match.

"Let's have a good, clean duel, shall we? No hitting below the waist or in the face. Anyone draws blood, we stop immediately. Understood?" The man said. Arya nodded in response while Joffrey waved him off dismissively.

"Let them fight, Beric." A voice, obviously slurred from drink, called from the crowd. Arya was sure they were taking bets. She hoped the men that bet on her were paid handsomely and the ones who bet against her bet high so they could lose it.

“Begin.” Beric said. As soon as he did, Prince Joffrey began waving his sword about wildly, causing some of the men who were leaning in eagerly to step back, lest they get cut by an errant swing.

“Interesting technique.” Arya commented dryly. She was sure to watch the blade so she wasn’t hit. She taped it with Needle twice, spinning around the prince easily until the tip of her blade was pointed at his jugular vein.

“Dead.” She said with a barely concealed smile, remembering Syrio’s lessons. The prince stared at her wide-eyed before Arya withdrew her sword and returned to her original position. Prince Joffrey’s face turned up and he lunged at her. She deftly moved her shoulder so the sword moved past her. She dodged a side-swipe and their blades met briefly before Arya danced around him until her blade was pointed at his heart.

“Dead.” She repeated, enjoying the silence that was falling over the men and the prince’s growing frustrations. He charged at her, aiming for her leg in an underhanded trick. Arya leapt out of the way and tapped his hand with the flat of her blade, sharp enough to sting but not draw blood. The prince resorted to his earlier tactic of swinging his sword hoping to hit something. Arya planted a foot against his, tripping him up so he fell to once knee. She managed to wrap her arm around his, stopping his flailing arm and held her Needle over her head, pointed at his eye.

“Very dead.” The prince pushed her away in frustration. He got up and made to approach her again before a voice raised from the crowd.

“Stop. You’re embarrassing yourself, our family and the whole of House Baratheon.” Arya turned to see Prince Gendry emerging from the crowd, his war-hammer in hand. He was shirtless and his chest was glistening with sweat and a few scratches. Arya felt her cheeks turning red at the sight and she glanced away.

She hadn’t spoken to him since the night they danced at the feast. She had initially been annoyed that he had approached her at all. She was sure it might’ve been his father’s doing. He looked so much like his father and she looked so much like her aunt, she wouldn’t put it past his father to use them as dolls to play out his fantasies. Talking to him had proved just how annoying he was but instead of making sure to rebuff him, she had started to talk to him. It was too familiar. She was sure he was just using her family so he could try to chat her up, butter her up to be receptive to a betrothal. Well, it wasn’t going to happen. She had resolved to stay well away from him since then and she had succeeded until now. Now he was strolling up shirtless, and she was blushing in front of everyone.

“Go away. I know what I’m doing.” Prince Joffrey protested as Prince Gendry came to stand beside him.

“Really? Didn’t look like it. What have you been teaching my brother, Clegane?”

“Not anything that sticks by the look of it.” The Hound replied dryly.

“No, apparently not.” Joffrey glared at his older brother and sworn shield before turning and stomping away from the field, his head hung low in embarrassment. Arya felt pride and satisfaction grow in her as she watched him. She glanced over at Prince Gendry, resolutely keeping her eyes on his face and straying to nowhere else on his body.

“You have skill.” Prince Gendry said with a nod of approval. Arya didn’t need his approval but it wasn’t lost on her that his words around this group of men would help them get over her presence so she could start making regular visits to the practice yards.

“Thanks.”

“Then again, Joffrey isn’t much of an opponent and your brother is too familiar of one.” Arya rose an eyebrow.

“Is that a challenge?”

“I was getting to it, yes.” Arya hadn’t fought against someone using a war-hammer before. Mainly it had been swords, spears and arakhs that one time when she, Robb and Jon were in Pentos and a man she'd met, Rakharo of Khal Drogo's khalasar, wanted a friendly spar (and to get friendly afterwards). It would be something of a learning curve fighting Prince Gendry, but it would be good experience and she was a quick learner. She took her position wordlessly. Prince Gendry took his as well, holding the hammer with one hand and a shield with the other.

They circled one another, each of them trying to decide what the best attack would be. Arya decided patience would be best. She didn’t know his fighting style yet and he had seen two fights of hers, though it wasn’t everything she had up her sleeve. He wasn’t patient enough to wait. He was surprisingly quick and light on his feet as he charged at her, his hammer swinging overhead. She played the defensive, swaying and leaping away from his swings, clashing against his hammer with Needle when she needed to. He was strong, much stronger than her or even Robb. Strength wasn’t going to win her this fight.

He blocked most of her hits with his shield and guarded both of his sides easily enough that she couldn’t slip through, but he wasn’t getting over on her either. Anytime he got close enough to push an advantage, she danced away from him or let him think she was getting tired enough that he let some of his guard down and allowed her to slip past him. She was ready to do so again when he came at her swinging overhead. She ducked under the hammer but he caught her off guard then, feinting right before his left leg swept her feet from under her and she found herself on the ground, the hammer laying gently on her chest.

“Dead.” He quipped, a satisfied expression on his face. Arya narrowed her eyes, feeling some anger at losing the fight. He was good, but she wasn’t giving up that easy.

“Again.” She demanded, getting to her feet. Prince Gendry rose an eyebrow before shrugging and getting into position again. They began sparring once more, dancing and striking at one another in what must look quite comical. He was a tall man, just like his father, with broad shoulders and a muscled body. He used his mass to effortlessly swing his large war-hammer about like it was little more than a blacksmith’s mallet and not a weapon that she would probably never be able to wield efficiently. In contrast, she was small and short, sparring with a skinny blade. She presented a smaller target but had nowhere near his strength if she got too close to him. The imbalance in strength came full force when Gendry lashed out, planting his foot in her chest and kicking her some feet away from him. Arya felt the wind get knocked out of her and it took her a second to gather her bearings. She could hear the whispers around her, some concerned and some amused. She glanced up a little while remaining on her back. Prince Gendry stared down at her with concern and remorse in his gaze. Arya hated it. She wasn’t a dainty little flower.

She swung her legs around, kipping herself up and brandishing her Needle in a swift, quick movement, her gaze intent on her target. Prince Gendry’s eyes filled with surprise before a quick pleased grin settled on his lips and he beckoned her to attack him. She went after him first this time, meeting his hammer, the sound of the weapons clashing spreading across the courtyard. She quickly racked her brain for Syrio’s teachings and observed the prince closely. She started to recognize some of the moves and realized he was going to try for a feint again. She was ready this time and when he made to feint right, she followed his hand rather than his feet. She wasn’t as strong as him but she used his own momentum against him, latched onto the arm wielding his war-hammer and made it slip past her right side ineffectually, rather than left as he was intending to do. The move surprised him enough that his hammer slipped out of his sweaty hand and his shield lowered minutely, giving her the chance to press Needle against his neck.

“Dead.” She said, a smile of accomplishment across her face.

“You too.” He said, nodding down. Arya looked down to see that somehow he had gotten to her dagger after losing his hammer and had the blade pressed against an artery on her leg. If it were a real battle, she’d have bled out too.

“I guess I’ll just have to die with the satisfaction that I took you with me.” Arya quipped as the two moved apart, Arya sheathing Needle and Prince Gendry retrieving his hammer. The men around them began clamoring amongst themselves to collect the earnings of the bets they placed or lose their money. Arya noticed Robb was among them and rolled her eyes. She was about to walk off to find something else to do when Prince Gendry called to her.

“Don’t leave without this.” He said, holding out her dagger. Arya hadn’t even noticed that she was about to leave it.

“Thanks.” She mumbled, putting it on her belt.

“Why’d you spar with me anyway? Most men are reluctant to do so.” She felt compelled to ask. Prince Gendry shrugged.

“I’d hate for you to come to the capital and think all the stories about my house were all lies. Joffrey may not be much for fighting but he’s not the best example of my house.” Prince Gendry replied. There seemed to be some deeper meaning to his words but Arya didn’t get it. They were silent for long enough that Arya was about to walk away when he spoke again.

“You are genuinely really good. Who taught you?” He asked curiously.

“I had many teachers. I taught myself some things watching the men train at Winterfell. My brother Jon taught me some others in secret and then I got a proper teacher. Syrio Forel, the first sword to the Sealord of Braavos.”

“That explains the strange style of fighting but it suits you. I’d suppose you’d have to do something different being as small as you are.” Arya felt herself bristle even though she knew his statement was nothing but the truth. It still bothered her for some reason.

“I’m not small, you’re just freakishly big. You might as well be an Umber. They’ve got giants’ blood in their line.” Prince Gendry looked amused by her indignation.

“If you ever have time, you should to talk to Elia Sand. She’s more likely to be in the tiltyard but I’m sure you two can bond over being angry, little women.” Arya glared at him silently before turning and walking away.

Just when she was starting to think he may not be as annoying as she thought, there he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next couple chapters we take a break from Gendarya and get two new POVs.  
> Comments and questions are welcome.


	5. Cersei I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei muses on her children and makes a request of Gendry.

Cersei loved her children, all of her children. It was the one true thing about her no one could deny. She hadn't wanted it to be so. She was content to love herself and only herself but they were parts of her, just as Jaime had been. They were reflections of her, even Gendry. It was a hard thing, extenuating circumstances notwithstanding, to carry a child inside of you for nine months, labor to bring it into the world and then not love it. Not even Cersei could manage that.

There wasn't much she couldn't replace or learn to live without, little she didn't think she could survive the loss of. She survived her mother's death. She survived her second son, her precious Steffon’s, death. She survived twenty-two years of marriage to Robert. She survived Jaime's death (and she had always known she could, even when she was sure he couldn't survive hers and she was fine with that). Cersei could survive much but what she couldn't do was survive the death of her living children. She knew she'd never be able to bear it. It plagued her dreams every night: Gendry, Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen's heads on spikes while Cersei cried a literal flood of tears until hands wrapped around her neck.

 _No, I disproved Maggy's mad ramblings years ago._ She reminded herself.

The mad woman proved wrong time and again. Cersei hadn't bore three children, she bore five, four surviving. There was yet to be another girl, younger and supposedly more beautiful, to usurp her title as queen. Robert kept all the whores he wanted but dared not try to depose her even now.

Gendry hadn’t taken enough of a fancy to any one girl to marry. Cersei had thought Margaery Tyrell would entrap him into her thorny vines, but she had passed some wits on to her eldest child and he saw through her act to what she really was. The little rose had married Renly after that, placing her and their unlikely son, Leland, in the line of succession but far enough away for any deaths of those before the Baratheons of Storm’s End (and Tyrells who backed them) to raise suspicion and keep them well away from the throne. Cersei didn’t think the throne was as much her or her family’s aim anymore for the moment due to her affairs outside of her marriage. The little whore must’ve thought herself so clever and discreet, that Cersei could not tell that she was married to one of her eldest son’s uncles and yet warmed the bed of another uncle. It was almost funny to Cersei. With Jaime dead, the little whore just might get what she wanted and expand the Tyrells’ reach right under the smokescreen of the royal family’s woes. The Gods surely loved to play their japes. Cersei didn’t think the simpering lady knew anything, but Olenna Tyrell had ears everywhere, the old crone. That smirking whore from Highgarden could play her games with the Imp all she wanted as long as she was well away from Cersei’s boys.

None of Margaery’s loose cousins were of any interest to Gendry and were not as beautiful as Cersei either way, and she would not suffer to be replaced by riffraff like them. Arianne Martell was beautiful but not more than Cersei and she and Gendry didn’t get along. Talla Tarly was a wistful child lost in songs about knights and princes and little threat to her. Sansa Stark was a pretty little dove but married already. Arya Stark, not likely. Some men might find her appealing, but she was hardly a beauty to write songs about.

Still though, even Cersei could see the resemblance to Lyanna. Lyanna Stark, who songs had turned into a great beauty but Cersei remembered as little more than a mannish, brutish thing stuck between girlhood and womanhood who always had a faint scent of horses clinging to her. Even feeble Elia Martell, with her flat chest and unremarkable black eyes, had greater beauty than the Northern wolf bitch and yet some madness took Rhaegar over and made him choose her over his wife rather than someone more suitable like Cersei herself. Robert followed right along with him, languishing in thoughts of that girl and her false beauty. Memory and nostalgia could blind men to truth though.

Cersei had watched Arya Stark closely at the welcoming feast. Robert had been absorbed in his conversation with Lord Stark until Gendry went to dance with the girl at Cersei’s behest. Robert had been watching their every move. She could understand why. Watching them together was like looking into a window of the past. Together, they were Robert and Lyanna Stark come again. She didn’t know all what was going on in Robert’s head but she knew she needed to stall him. Varys’ plan was helping to do that, to help her set up her contingencies, but Arya Stark concerned her. If Robert was allowed to think on it enough, he could decide to take her for his queen simply for her resemblance to Lyanna. The girl could convince him to let the bastard go and then the full weight of his anger would come down on Cersei and her children. No, she needed the girl away from Robert.

Her mind turned to Gendry. He hadn’t taken the revelations about the truth well. She didn’t expect him to do so, or any of her children to. Still, he was working hard to comfort her and come up with a plan on his own. Cersei, of course, had a plan. She had several. Lord Stark and the Targaryen bastard were working as a nice distraction for her to put her plans in motion but Gendry…

If all went as she willed it, he would be left behind as would Myrcella. She was loath to do so but it would be for the best. Besides which, she needed him away from her so she could do what she needed to do but he clung to her whenever he got the chance as he hadn’t done since he was a child.

She picked up her wine goblet and sauntered over to the window. She didn’t get to leave her chambers anymore. There were guards on her door at all times. She had managed to seduce a couple but not all of them so her ability to send ravens or any messages at all was limited to a select few time periods but she did not get to leave her chambers ever. She didn’t get to be alone with anyone other than guards and maids. The window became her one source of any entertainment besides books. She looked down onto the training grounds and courtyard. Men were gathered around something and she realized it was a fight. As she saw a war-hammer go swinging she recognized Gendry facing off against Arya Stark. It took her a moment to recognize that it was the girl. She hardly looked like a woman.

The two went head to head for some time before the girl disarmed Gendry and the fight ended, though they seemed to call it a draw. She remembered days when she had wished she got to swing a sword as Jaime did but instead was presented dresses and jewels and pushed aside the envious feeling rising in her. She would not be envious of that little feral beast Ned Stark called daughter. She watched them talk off to the side for a moment, wheels spinning in her head. She needed the girl out of the way and she needed to give Gendry something to do that would keep him out of her way. She went swiftly to her table and wrote a note, slipping it under the door. She knew it was one of the Kettleblack brothers guarding her this hour. It didn’t matter which, any would pass her message along. She heard the shift of armor as he picked the paper up.

She sat back and waited for hours for her message to be sent, spending her time drinking wine and reading books she previously had no interest in. Before long, Gendry finally came to her.

“Mother?” She heard ghost its way into the room. She quickly stood and pushed aside the dresser by her bed, revealing the air vent there. It was the only source of communication she had with her son available to her, the vent stretching to her personal maid’s chambers and affording some ability to speak.

“What took you so long?”

“Father wanted me to listen to war stories from him and Lord Stark.”

“Of course he did.”

“Is something wrong?” Gendry asked with concern. Cersei almost smiled at it, almost. He looked the least like her and he wasn’t Jaime’s. She should hate him, or at least not love him as much as she did her other children but there existed a connection between a mother and her firstborn child that didn’t exist between she and her other children. Try all she might to deny it, there was a special, deeper bond there.

“No, not as such. I need you to do something for me though.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to spend time with the Stark girl.”

“You want me to get information from her again?” Cersei couldn’t see his face but he sounded disdainful towards the request.

“No, not get information from her. Distract her, keep her busy and, most importantly, keep her away from your father. He has always had a soft spot for the Starks, I wouldn’t put it past him to decide to forgive Lord Stark’s treason in exchange for his daughter’s hand. Besides, you also said she was close with the bastard. She may begin to become suspicious. I saw her fight, she could be a problem. Keep her away from Robert so she does not get in the way.”

“But what’s the plan besides that? How are you going to get out of this?”

“Don’t worry over it, I have my plans. Just do as I say.” Cersei replied. Gendry was quiet for a long time and she thought he had left but eventually he spoke up.

“Why? Why did you do it? You and Uncle Jaime?” Cersei shook her head, though he couldn’t see it.

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“What answer could there be that you would accept, that would make you feel better about it? That’s what you want, right? To feel better? I can’t make that happen.” She retorted. He would never understand. He couldn’t. He had never been in love and he was a man. Love was irrational and not always directed towards who it should be. And Gendry was born a man, able to wield a weapon and rule people and be taken seriously as a threat. Cersei was stuck living a woman’s life, expected to be fucked when needed and birth heirs when needed and that was all. He couldn’t know her desires went far beyond just simply love and she wouldn’t vocalize it.

“We need to focus on protecting Joff, Myrcella and Tommen now. Not who all I’ve let into my bed chambers.” Jaime wasn’t the only one. There was Lancel and the Kettleblacks and Taena Merryweather but Robert didn’t know about them. Jaime hadn’t known about them either and it would remain that way.

“Did you ever hope I was Uncle Jaime’s and not Father’s? Did you ever imagine a world where I didn’t exist?” Gendry asked, his voice quieter than normal, clear vulnerability in it. Cersei didn’t like her children hurting, didn’t like being the source of it. If she could, she would take his pain away.

“I’ve imagined you with blonde hair and green eyes, yes. But even then you weren’t Jaime’s, you were mine and mine alone. Just like Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen are only mine. They were never Jaime’s and they were never Robert’s, they are just mine. You were only mine too once, before Robert took you away to teach you to be his heir, though how he could when he never ruled is beyond me. I never loved you any less because you were Robert’s, Gendry.” She replied, allowing herself to speak truthfully and honestly.

 _Using honest emotion to do dishonest work is one of the few talents I’ll grant that you possess in spades, dear sister._ Tyrion had said to her once.

Gendry remained silent and Cersei sighed to herself.

“When you were a babe, both you and your twin brother, Steffon, fell ill. Steffon became sick first and then you a few days later. A fever, the maesters said. I sat by your cribs every night, watching you both struggle to breath. Watching your little bodies shake and sweat. I’d never felt so helpless. Your father was little better, decimating trees almost all day but at nights we would sit and watch vigil over you both together. I prayed over the both of you every night and nothing changed. You and Steffon were just getting more and more ill. Finally, I realized I must make a choice. A hard choice. So, I went all the way to the Great Sept of Baelor at night and got on my knees before the Mother and I prayed for you to survive, Gendry. I prayed to the Crone to light your way back to the land of the living. I told the Gods if they can spare only one of you that they must spare you, my firstborn, and that if they must take Steffon then the Stranger should know they must take a part of my soul with him and guide him gently to the afterlife. He died that night. As soon as I returned to the castle, I walked up to his crib. He opened his big blue eyes and stared at me. He reached up to me and I held him in my arms and I felt him take his last breath. A few hours later, your fever broke and you began to heal.” Cersei said. She tried to keep her voice steady but she couldn’t stop the single tear falling down her cheek as she remembered Steffon. She thought of him less and less over the years but when she did think of him, the grief hit hard and swift. She could hear Gendry’s breath catching, could hear the audible shock.

“They thought you would be permanently damaged, weak, unable to ever fight or wield a weapon. But you proved them wrong. I’ve never been very pious, you know that, but I have never regretted my decision to choose you. Never doubt that I love you, not ever again. Do you understand me?” She said, her voice regaining its strength and commanding nature, shedding her sadness like an old cloak she had no use for anymore. And she didn’t, she didn’t need to show her sadness anymore because she knew she had her son completely now. He would do what she said.

“Yes, Mother. I understand.” Gendry replied in a wobbly tone of voice.

“Good. Now go. Make sure you distract the Stark girl as I’ve said.”

“Yes, Mother.” He repeated before she heard his steps walking away from her. Cersei took a deep breath as she stood and replaced the dresser.

She loved her children, she’d do whatever was necessary for their survival. If it meant the Starks had to burn, then so be it. And if it meant she would lose one or more of them so they would survive, then she would just have to accept that choice just as she had accepted the hard choices she made for them before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we get some insight into Cersei. Her views on her children are a little skewed in contrast to canon because one of her children with Robert has lived. She does love Gendry and have a different kind of bond with him due to him being her firstborn but Joffrey is still the fav, the one who looks and acts the most like her. This changes her views on several things, such as Maggy the Frog's prophecy but she is Cersei so she is still paranoid and still willing for everyone else to die if it means her children live. I didn't get into the valonqar (sp?) part of things because it's just not important right now. She's not worried about Tyrion possibly killing her because she's worried about Robert killing her and the kids.  
> Comments and questions are welcome.


	6. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets a knight and learns a new perspective on the status of bastardry.

[Elia Sand](http://www.newhdwallpaper.in/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/Alia-Bhatt-super-gorgeous-new-images.jpg)

* * *

The capital was as Jon’s crewmates said it would be. It smelled of filth and shit. It was overcrowded, the poor and starving filling the streets. Everyone whispered secrets to the other. Everyone had an agenda. Everyone wore a mask.

He hated it.

He wasn’t completely unused to it. White Harbor had been something of a culture shock as well. Other than the fact that he hadn’t expected to be sent away in the first place, arriving at White Harbor he was able to see how different it was to Winterfell immediately. As the name suggested, White Harbor was a harbor city and he saw many people from all over the known world during his time there, including Southerners, so their ways weren’t completely foreign to him but that didn’t mean he enjoyed being surrounded by it any more.

It had been strange as soon as he dismounted his horse. The king had invited his family, including himself, to King’s Landing but when he first met Jon he had looked at him like he was the worst person to ever draw breath. He thought he understood hatred when he saw it in Lady Catelyn’s eyes but the king’s… There was something deadly about it. Something that made Jon think there was more to do with it than just his being a bastard, especially after Princess Myrcella’s words of reassurance but Jon couldn’t say what he had ever done to the man. He had never met him before now and he hadn't ever run into royal vessels during his time at sea. His father had asked Jon to stay away from the king and he had been all too happy to oblige.

There were certain things about being a resident of the Red Keep that ground on his nerves other than just the king. He didn’t go to the practice yard when there were too many people and definitely not when Prince Joffrey was present. It was better to avoid the confrontation. He sat as far away from King Robert as possible when they ate meals together. Prince Gendry didn’t really speak to him, but it didn’t seem to be for the same reason that Prince Joffrey derided him. Above all else, it was hot. He was used to heat, travelling to Essos but the heat in King’s Landing was different. It hung in the air with a stickiness that just accentuated the smell. Or perhaps it was the smell and filth that made the heat feel worse here than it did across the sea. Either way, Jon felt caged in in this place. Ghost didn’t seem to appreciate it either. He always went to find the coolest parts of the grounds and Jon would generally follow him.

He let Ghost lead him now as they walked through the keep’s halls. He observed the tapestries on the walls depicting Baratheon history. On closer inspection behind the tapestries he could see relief sculptures of dragons and other Targaryen motifs in the walls, but he didn’t bother lingering on them. Ghost led him all around the keep and he encountered almost all of his siblings along the way. Sansa walked the halls with Domeric on one side and who she introduced as Lady Margaery on the other, the three on their way to the lower town to visit an orphanage. He caught sight of Rickon and Arya running around, talking about finding secret passageways and the dragon skulls the king hid away with Shaggydog and Nymeria on their heels. He should stop them, but he didn’t bother. As he turned a corner, he saw Bran coming up in the other direction, walking behind Ser Barristan Selmy along with Summer, Prince Tommen and Lady Shireen, the younger children resembling ducklings in a line as they followed the knight with Summer bringing up the rear behind the poor, sad, grayscale afflicted girl. Jon decided Shireen was a nice, quiet and sweet girl despite her disfigurement. It did make her an easy target for others' cruelty, not least of all her cousin, but Bran defended her. Jon thought he had a crush on her but when he had managed to ask in between Robb's merciless teasing, Bran simply blushed and said he did what any true knight would do.

“I hope Bran’s not being too much of a bother.” Jon commented, stopping briefly to engage the old knight in a conversation.

“No, not at all…” The knight trailed off, waiting for an introduction.

“I’m Jon Snow.” He clarified.

“Ah, yes. Lord Stark’s natural son. Brandon has mentioned you. He says you’re a natural with a sword.” Jon ducked his head a little, not wanting to boast and seem egotistical.

“It’s true. He’s even better than our oldest brother, Robb.” Bran said, backing up his claims. Jon shot him a smile and Bran returned it easily.

“Well, perhaps I shall have to see for myself one day.” Jon looked up with a small, bashful grin, meeting the knight’s eyes. Ser Barristan seemed to make a double-take before looking at Jon as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Are you alright, Ser?” Jon asked with confusion.

“Yes, yes. You just… reminded me of someone for a moment.” Jon took the answer for what it was. Most everyone noted his resemblance to not only to his father, but also his Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna to a lesser extent. It wasn't much of a surprise, he had the traditional Stark look after-all. Before he could say anything else, he caught sight of Ghost staring at him impatiently at the end of the hall.

“I’d better go. It was an honor to meet you, Ser.” Jon said, bowing before the legendary knight.

“You as well, Jon Snow.” Ser Barristan replied.

“Remember to seek me out for a proper spar.” He continued. Jon nodded his head. He’d be a fool to pass up a chance to show his skills to such a seasoned knight and perhaps be taught to hone his skills even further.

 _Wynafryd will never believe it when I tell her._ He thought to himself, catching up with Ghost who gave him a look for making him wait before continuing to lead him around the keep. Ghost led him outside where the air was stickier and muggier than it was inside. The filthy smell hung in the air and Jon almost turned back inside but Ghost persisted, trotting off to the side. Servants and people dodged away from him, though some gazed at the direwolf curiously. With all seven direwolves following the Starks around, some people were getting used to them. Others were still afraid and kept their distance. Others were friends of Prince Joffrey and liked to talk in Jon’s earshot of all the prince’s musings of killing one direwolf or other to make a rug out of, thinking they wouldn’t miss one. Jon didn’t think the prince would get the drop on any of the direwolves and more likely would end up bitten and bruised, possibly killed if he crossed Frostfang or any of her pups in her vicinity, but Jon still warned his siblings to keep them away from him when and if they could.

Ghost led him towards the gardens and into what must be the castle’s godswood. It was cooler here, the tall trees blocking out the sun a little and allowing air to flow around the space through the leaves and hedges. It also didn’t smell as much, though the smell from the sewers never completely went away. It was a large space, perhaps an acre of elm, alder and black cottonwood trees that overlooked the Blackwater Rush. There was a great oak tree in the center which Jon figured must be this godswood’s version of a weirwood. There was no face carved into it, no sap dripping down. This must be what people meant when they said the Old Gods were blind in the South. The limbs of the tree were overgrown with smokeberry vines, so much so that Jon didn’t note that a person sat beneath the tree entangled in the vines until Ghost approached her. The girl jumped and let out a small yelp, prompting Jon to approach her to reassure her.

“It’s alright, he’s not going to hurt you.” He assured her, pulling Ghost back a little to give her space. He looked over and stopped as he recognized the girl.

“Jon Snow.” She said with a smile.

“Lady Elia.” He said, his cheeks burning a little as he gave her a stiff bow. She giggled a little at the gesture. He had met her at the feast. He met all the ladies that could be good prospects for him at the feast, mostly because Sansa had pointed them all out to him and then politely threatened him if he didn’t at least speak to them. Joy Hill was a nice, sweet girl five years younger than him. He danced with her and held a conversation with her, but it was also clear that she had affections for Lord Tyrion’s squire, Podrick Payne, so after they danced he escorted her over and left the two to talk amongst themselves.

He met Falia Flowers and she had been… interesting to say the least. She was quite aggressive and suggested that both he and Robb could meet her in her chambers. Jon had ended the conversation there.

He danced with Talla Tarly, though he was certain nothing could come of that seeing as how she was a trueborn lady, and Sansa had practically thrown him at Rosamund Lannister and Elinor Tyrell in hopes of what, Jon wasn’t sure. But Elia had come up to him while he was deciding whether he could get away with leaving the feast early and dragged him onto the dancefloor with little to no introduction. She was good at making conversation. Her jokes edged on the inappropriate but not so much like Falia as it was like Arya. She flirted with him blatantly and it made him blush but didn’t exactly make him uncomfortable. It should’ve done. He was almost certain she was after him for one thing and he wouldn’t have gone to bed with her, but he did enjoy the time he had gotten to talk to her.

She was a beautiful girl with smooth olive skin denoting her Dornish roots, silky black hair falling past her shoulders, doe-like brown eyes dancing with light and mischief and a short but strong stature. She was lithe, but her arms showed hints of muscle that went beyond what most other Southern ladies could claim to possess. If Arya hadn’t begged him to rescue her from the feast, he would’ve stayed and spoken to her more.

“You left the feast so swiftly and I haven’t seen you since then, I was beginning to think perhaps you were just a dream.” She teased. Jon chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head.

“No, I’m very real. My sister needed me.” He explained apologetically, glancing down at Ghost as he moved away to explore the godswood. Hopefully he didn’t relieve himself on anything but Jon wasn’t hopeful. Elia clucked in response to his words.

“Sisters, a needy bunch, aren’t they?”

“Do you have many sisters?”

“You could say that. From my father I have seven sisters, but according to my mother I have ten thousand brothers and sisters, all named Sand, and so they are my kin as well.” Jon quirked an eyebrow.

“That’s a different view of things.” He noted.

“Well, Dorne is different from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Bastards can rise high in Dorne, be treated as no different than any other member of a family.” Jon scrunched his eyebrow, wondering.

“If you have a question, you can ask.” Elia said, seeing the conflict on his face.

“If you are so close to your father, why does he not legitimize you?” Jon asked, sitting beside the younger woman. Elia’s nose scrunched a little in reply.

“I suppose it was just… never important to us. Not to me or my sisters, anyway.”

“Really?” It had always been something he wanted more than anything, to be legitimized. He thought it was the wish of every bastard.

“We know our father loves us. We don’t need his name to tell us that.”

“I know my father loves me. I don’t doubt it.”

“But?”

“Legitimization has never come up in conversation between us before. My sister Sansa says it’s because her mother would never allow it. My older brother, Robb, says he will legitimize me when he is Lord of Winterfell. I’ve never known my mother. I don’t even know her name or what she looked like and Lady Catelyn despises me, Lord Stark has been the only parent I’ve ever had. Being Jon Stark, it was what I wanted more than anything in the world once. The desire has faded over time as I’ve grown but I suppose it will never truly go away.” Jon said, his voice far away before he caught himself. He should not have said all that. Perhaps it was that he had seldom gotten to talk to other bastards in his life. There was Larence Snow, who was Jon’s crewmate for a while until that incident with Arya. There were some bastards in Essos, but children born out of wedlock was much more commonplace there and they didn’t understand the scorn or prejudice Jon faced. Some who were born out of wedlock across the Narrow Sea did not even understand the concept of a bastard. Perhaps it was just that Elia seemed trustworthy and though she had a teasing, playful personality, she also didn’t seem to mind listening to him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. It was too forward and familiar. I barely know you.”

“I don’t mind. It doesn’t bother me. I know being a bastard is different in the other kingdoms than it is in Dorne. I know it is not the same in the North either as it is in, say the Westerlands or the Riverlands, but it certainly isn’t Dorne either. It seems we have had different experiences growing up as bastards. I grew up knowing my mother, living with her. Me and my younger sisters, Obella, Dorea and Loreza, have always had our parents together. Even though they are not married, they love one another. They just also love sharing their love with other people. It may seem strange to others but that is just how my family has always operated. The younger girls and I were fortunate in that we had both of our parents, my other sisters were not so lucky. Nymeria and Tyene knew their mothers and went back and forth between staying with them and visiting us in Dorne. Sarella’s mother travelled a lot since she is the captain of the _Feathered Kiss,_ so she didn’t know her well. Obara, my eldest sister, was never close to her mother. She chose my father over her mother and her mother is dead now. I don’t think any of them ever regretted the closeness to our father over their mothers but none of them have ever pressed the issue of legitimization either. Besides, Sand Snakes sounds much better than Martell Snakes, doesn’t it?”

“Sand Snakes?”

“My sisters and I, that’s what some people call us together. Or they call me Lady Lance. I’m better in a saddle than any of my sisters combined.” She said, sounding very proud of that fact.

“You joust?” Jon asked incredulously.

“Why so surprised?”

“You’re just so… small.” Elia scoffed at the comment, smacking Jon’s arm lightly.

“Well, you’re not exactly the tallest man in a room either.”

“Have you won many tourneys?”

“I’ve never entered.”

“Why not?” He asked. It wasn’t officially against the rules for women to enter, even though it was rare. Elia shifted a little on her perch. For the first time, Elia looked something other than amused and self-assured. She looked self-conscious.

“I don’t know. I love jousting. Sitting on a horse, a lance in hand, charging at my opponent, using all my skills to knock him off his horse onto his, more-than-likely, pompous ass: it’s a feeling that I couldn’t do justice to with words. But, jousting in front of everyone? I suppose it just feels strange to think of everyone watching me ride, all those eyes on me. They watch me closely enough as is. It wasn’t until I came here that I experienced what you must have experienced your whole life: people making judgements of me because of who my parents are. And not just that, but because of who I am: a Dornish woman. A Dornish woman and a bastard. In Dorne, it is normal. But here I am like a murmur’s attraction. Men think they can take advantage of me or think me a whore for not being as pious, meek or censured as the ladies they are used to. Women think me some evil succubus seeking to steal their husbands and never once thinking to look at their husbands who flick their eyes at me and make their passes no matter my rejections. Septons and septas think I must expunge my soul for perceived sins I had no part in, that I must pay my penance to the Gods by joining the faith and living out my days as a Silent Sister.” Elia scoffed derisively then, shaking her head in anger and disgust at the notion.

“I tried to fit in when I first got here but I stopped trying to be what they wanted me to be a long time ago. I will never be able to please every single person in the world by pretending to be something I am not, so I might as well be myself. Still, I haven’t managed to convince myself to enter the lists. I almost signed up one year when Lady Brienne of Tarth signed up for the melee. She won that year. I guess I was too nervous.” Jon felt sympathy for her and understanding. After all, he couldn’t even make himself practice in the yards without waiting for most of the people to clear the area. Besides that, Elia reminded him of Arya, who indulged in unladylike activities and wanted to prove her metal more than anything else except Arya didn’t care as much what everyone else thought. She did have that luxury a bit more than Elia. Arya being a highborn lady and Elia was a bastard. However, it seemed that Elia’s father, Prince Oberyn, was much like Ned Stark in that he did not try to hinder his daughters from pursuing whatever skills they were best at, even if those skills were those of combat.

“The king is planning a tourney, I hear. In honor of Lord Jon Arryn.”

“The Hand hated tourneys. He thought they were wasteful.” Elia replied. Jon shrugged. He didn’t know his namesake well at all.

“My father has the same sentiments, but the king will have the tourney nonetheless. Maybe you should enter the lists, show your worth.”

“How would you know my worth? You’ve never seen me joust.” She replied.

“Because of your voice.”

“My voice?” Elia asked with confusion.

“The way you sound when you’re talking about jousting. You love it.”

“Just because someone loves something, doesn’t mean they are skilled at it.”

“That is true enough but I’m willing to wait and see.” Elia stared at him for a while as if to see if he was joking but upon seeing his earnest expression, she smiled at him. It was a genuine smile, not one born of flirtation or amusement or teasing, just a smile. She had a pretty smile.

“Maybe I will enter the lists then.” Just as quickly, her smile turned teasing once more. She bent down and plucked up a strange looking grey rose and stuffed it in his hair, above his ear.

“Perhaps I will crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty. You certainly have a face to match the title.” Jon blushed at the insinuation and looked away. Ghost trot back up to him then looking quite chipper. Jon was sure he desecrated some tree here, but his return saved him from answering. The wolf grabbed Jon’s sleeve with his teeth and started tugging Jon’s hand back and forth, a game he liked to play with him. Elia watched the wolf carefully.

“Is it safe?” Elia asked, her hand poised in the air to pet Ghost.

“Give me your hand.” Jon requested. Elia placed hers in his and he offered her hand, palm up, to Ghost. The wolf sniffed it before licking her fingers, drawing a breathy laugh from the Dornish girl.

“You can scratch his ears now or rub his head.” Jon told her. She stretched out her hand and pushed her fingers into the fur atop Ghost’s head, scratching at his ears to the wolf’s delight. She shot an exhilarated grin at Jon before using her other hand to rub Ghost’s back. Jon smiled a little at the sight.

He was still nervous about this trip. He didn’t understand why the king summoned him here but seemed to hate him and he wasn’t so sure about offering him to marry anyone, or going after it himself, but Elia was nice to spend time with. She made him smile. He decided to push his concerns and overthinking aside. Perhaps everything would turn out just fine. He would just trust his father to know what he was doing in terms of the king. Besides, he promised they wouldn’t be there long anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions and comments are welcome.


	7. Gendry III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry and Arya go hunting.

Gendry was ready to leave Lady Arya alone after the feast but seeing her sparring with Joffrey in the courtyard sparked an interest in him that he couldn’t push aside. She had looked so graceful twirling around him and using her skinny blade like it was an extension of herself. When he sparred with her, he felt his blood boiling and his breath coming quick. She was a wonder, leaping and parrying his blows. Even when he was rough with her, she didn’t back down. She wasn’t like anyone else he’d ever met, not even the Sand Snakes.

Still, he didn’t forget what the future held for their respective families, so he once again told himself to stay away from her. Then his mother told him she wanted him to actively spend time with her. A part of him wanted to refuse her. Arya Stark made him feel… things. He figured it was just the fact that he was attracted to her and so his body reacted to her as any man’s body would. In truth, he didn’t think he’d ever met anyone as annoying and frustrating as her. But there was something beneath, a person who he would like to talk to but every time he tried to, she would walk away before long so what was the point of pushing it? But he couldn’t deny his mother’s request, not after what she had told him and so he started running through ideas to get closer to Lady Arya in his mind.

He sparred with her again after the first time. She was starting to pick up on his technique and she had beaten him once but he still mostly beat her. They had small conversations after they sparred but Lady Arya would always leave soon enough before he could talk to her about anything of great consequence.

He walked through the halls absentmindedly, his mind racing over possibilities. Just as he was walking towards a corner, he felt a body slam into his. He reached out and grabbed the person quickly before they went crashing down to the floor. He looked down to see that it was Lady Arya. Of course it was.

“Seven hells!” She exclaimed, righting herself. He snatched his arms away from her.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you.” Gendry mumbled.

“Obviously.” Lady Arya continued, indignation in her voice. She moved to walk around him but he stopped her.

“Hey!”

“What?” She asked.

“Where are you going?” He asked, not sure what else to say. Lady Arya narrowed her eyes at him.

“Why do you want to know?”

“You’re still new around here. Maybe I can help you find your way around.”

“I doubt it.” Gendry scoffed.

“Well, of course. I’ve only lived here for twenty-one years. You, who have been here for five days, know better than me.” Lady Arya rolled her eyes in response.

“I’m looking for the dragon skulls. The ones your father put away. Specifically, I’m looking for Balerion’s skull. I found the others but not his.”

“Oh.” Gendry had never had an inclination to look for the skulls, not even as a child.

“Now that you know, am I free to go My Prince?” Lady Arya said, her tone edging on mocking. Gendry studied her for a moment before walking past her. He looked back at her when he realized she wasn’t following.

“Are you coming or what?”

“You know where it is?” She questioned dubiously.

“No. But two people looking should make it go quicker, shouldn’t it?” Lady Arya looked about to protest but decided against it and walked up beside him. They were silent for a moment, Lady Arya walking confidently through the halls.

“Where’s Nymeria?” Gendry asked as he noticed the large direwolf’s absence. It would’ve made the search go a little easier.

“She’s with Lady Shireen.”

“Why?” Gendry asked with confusion.

“Because Prince Joffrey is a dolt and a bully. He’s less likely to bother your cousin with Nymeria there.” Gendry looked at her with surprise.

“I didn’t know you two were friends.”

“We’re not. I don’t really know her. Bran spends time with her a lot. He wants to be a knight and so he follows Ser Barristan around with your brother but he likes books too and history, so he and Lady Shireen get along. I think he has a crush on her. If Bran is with her, Summer is too so Prince Joffrey doesn’t bother her but she was alone and I noticed him picking on her so I sent Nymeria to stay with her. Shireen was nice to her when they met.” Gendry was surprised and impressed that she had stepped up to help someone she didn’t even know, especially his cousin.

“Thanks for that. People treat her differently because of her greyscale.” Many betrothals had fallen through over Shireen’s disfigurement. No one spent the time to actually get to know her past the greyscale and didn’t understand the sweet, kind, knowledgeable girl she really was. Lady Arya shrugged off his gratitude.

“It was nothing. Anyone would do the same.”

“You haven’t been in King’s Landing long enough to know that’s not true.” Gendry replied, amusement in his voice.

“Why not?” She asked. Gendry took some time to think before answering.

“I don’t know. That’s just the way it’s always been.”

“That’s stupid.” She replied bluntly.

“Maybe so. But that’s how it is.”

“How can you live like this? Not being able to trust anyone, having to watch every word you say, having to watch every action, knowing that if you’re even a little different someone will use it against you. I’d go mad living like that.”

“I guess I’m just used to it, my lady.”

“I’m not a lady.” She replied quickly.

“Your father is a lord and your mother is a lady.” Gendry pointed out.

“Well, I’m not one. That’s not me.” She protested.

“What am I supposed to call you then?”

“Perhaps you should try using my name.”

“Only if you call me by my name.” Gendry retorted.

“Fine, whatever.” Arya replied, moving towards a column by the wall. Gendry watched her feel behind the column with confusion.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting into the tunnels.”

“What tunnels?”

“Are you serious? The secret passageways all over the castle.”

“I know about the tunnels in the basement but the walls?” Arya seemed to find what she was looking for and Gendry watched in disbelief as a section of the wall floated up into itself to reveal a small stone staircase, almost concealed in the shadows of the column. Arya threw a smile his way and beckoned him to follow her as she ducked under the entrance. Gendry had to practically crawl through the opening but once he was past it, he was able to stand to full height. Lady Arya closed the entrance and grabbed a burning torch from a handle on the wall. He wondered who kept it lit.

“Maegor Targaryen was mad enough to put secret passageways everywhere in the Red Keep leading to all sorts of places. Rickon and I have been hunting them since the day we got here. We found this one by accident. I’ve caught a few kids running up and down here, they keep the torches lit.”

“Lord Varys’ little birds.” Gendry said, carefully walking down the steps. They were long and narrow, so he had to walk behind her with his hand along the wall for support but he took note of it and it's location. It could come in handy one day. He should probably talk to Lady Arya or Lord Rickon at length about all the passageways they had found.

“A few of them told me of some other passageways. I bribed one with some sweets and they told me if I wanted to find Balerion, this passageway was my best bet.”

“Why do you care so much to find him?” He saw Arya shrug in the firelight.

“I’m just curious.” They continued along down the long staircase until they stepped onto flat land. They were in the basement. The stairs had led directly to the chamber of the majority of the dragon skulls. Gendry looked around at them, some wonderment growing in him. Some were large as the bell hanging over the Sept of Baelor, others were small as cats. He had known they were down here but he never paid attention to them. It was more something Tommen would be interested in. Arya seemed to be interested in them as well.

“A lot of skulls here are a result of the Dance of Dragons. This one is Arrax. His rider was Lucerys Velaryon. Arrax's head and neck washed up on the shores of Storm’s End after he and his rider were killed by Aemond Targaryen and Vhagar. This one is Meleys. Princess Rhaenys was her rider. Meleys fought against Vhagar and Sunfyre in the Battle of Rook's Rest. Meleys was smaller than Vhagar but some people think if the dragons went one-on-one, Meleys might’ve won. The only reason she was defeated was because she fought both dragons at once. This one is Caraxes. At the start of the Dance of the Dragons, Daemon Targaryen landed Caraxes atop Kingspyre Tower during the assault on Harrenhal. Daemon challenged Aemond Targaryen and Vhagar there. All four of them ended up getting killed in the Battle Above the Gods Eye. Imagine it: Vhagar locked with Caraxes as they fell into the Gods Eye. The dragons still fighting in freefall. Vhagar's claws opening up Caraxes' belly and using her teeth to tear off one of his wing-arms. Caraxes locking his teeth onto Vhagar’s throat and tearing it out, even though Vhagar was larger and older. Vhagar didn’t stand a chance of surviving the fall. Caraxes did. He managed to live long enough to pull himself out of the water and onto the shore, even though his entrails were falling out and one of his arms had been torn clean off. But he died in front of the walls of Harrenhal. The same place where years before Vhagar had burned Harrenhal with her brother and sister. History is funny that way.” Gendry watched her face through the macabre, impromptu history lesson. She seemed deeply interested in the history of these dragons but also sad.

“You sound like Shireen talking about this stuff.” Gendry noted, trying to inject some levity into the moment.

“It seems so wasteful, doesn’t it? All that death. Kin slaying kin. It’s not like it’s never happened up North. The Starks fought hard and bloody against their kin, the Greystarks, but we never forget. We never shove it in a cellar and ignore the warnings of history. Family is the most important thing. When winter comes, it doesn’t matter what title you bear. Highborn and lowborn alike can freeze and starve. Winter is when you have to draw together as a family. In winter, we must protect ourselves and look out for one another. My father always tells us, ‘when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives’. The Targaryens could’ve done with some advice like that.”

 _The Targaryens and Baratheons both_ , Gendry thought to himself, thinking of the fights his father and uncles could get into. They weren’t like the Starks, who were obviously tight-knit but Gendry was close to his siblings so he could understand Arya’s stance and her sentiments about the Dance.

“What side would you have chosen? My teacher asked us that once. I chose Rhaenyra’s. The greens attacked first by killing Lucerys and Rhaenyra was named queen by her father in his will.”

“I would’ve chose neither. As soon as they both went for blood instead of looking to mend things among their family in a more civil way, they showed they both were overcome by emotion and greed. I wouldn’t trust either side.”

"Some might call that craven behavior." Gendry commented, no venom in his voice.

"I prefer to think of it as cautious."

“What would you have done?”

“I don’t know but I wouldn’t have started that war. Both Rhaenyra and Aegon II died anyway, countless family members and dragons died. The dynasty never recovered from it. But then again, if it hadn’t happened, who can say you or I would be standing here today, right?” Lady Arya said. She sounded wise beyond her years, almost queenly. Gendry had never known his mother to speak like that, despite her title. She didn't really care for history unless it was her personal history or suited her needs. Arya's fascination seemed partly rooted in the fact that she could learn from history. Like a candle flickering, her eyes turned back to childlike excitement.

“But I hear Balerion is bigger than any of them, even Vhagar. I haven’t gone down this tunnel yet. Mayhaps we’ll find him this way.” Gendry surveyed the dragons once more. They were bone and skull but it still felt like they had a presence about them, even the smallest of the hatchlings. He didn’t have a problem following after her down the tunnel to get away from them. As strange as it sounded, he didn’t think they liked him being there. This tunnel was rounded and large and dark at the end of it. Gendry was cautious, but Arya seemed excited more than anything else. They stepped into the dark chamber, the torch the only thing lighting the area. Gendry looked up. The ceiling was higher here and the room itself was large. He stepped back, trying to survey the room more when he bumped into a large shape. He jumped when he felt it. He turned and felt his heart thud at the large shape of Balerion’s skull.

“Arya.” He called, his voice weaker than he would like. It was just a skull after all but the thing was the size of a ship’s hull, if not larger. It towered over Gendry by more than a story. Arya was utterly dwarfed when she came up beside him and shined the torch on it. He looked over at her and saw her eyes wide with awe. She looked starstuck.

“Balerion. His fire was as black as his scales, his wingspan so vast that entire towns would fall under his shadow when he passed overhead. His teeth were as long as swords, and his jaw was large enough to swallow an aurochs whole. The Seven Kingdoms, it started with him.” She reached out tentatively and brushed her hand along its broad maw. Gendry could swear he heard a dragon roar in the distance, but it was probably just in his own head.

“One would think you’re a Targaryen as taken with all of this as you are.” Arya retracted her hand with a shrug.

“It’s just fascinating. The dragons helped build the Targaryen dynasty, helped make them kings and queens and then not long after they ceased to exist the Targaryens fell to ruin and extinction. I hear rumors, well Jon hears rumors that there are dragons in Essos.” Gendry gave her a doubtful expression. Arya gave him a look.

“People thought direwolves were extinct for decades. Now there are seven and that’s only South of The Wall.” Gendry knew Daenerys Targaryen was still out there and for a time his father sent assassins after her but it became a futile endeavor after she married some Dothraki khal. She didn’t seem to have any plans to come reclaim her family’s ancestral seat. By all accounts from Varys’ birds, she was quite happy living with her husband and their children. As for Viserys Targaryen, Gendry heard he died some years ago after threatening his sister and her unborn child thus pissing her husband off enough to kill him. Now there was just Jon Snow. Lady Arya was wise, she’d make for a good councilor if Jon Snow ever decided to…

Gendry pushed the thought away. He didn’t seem the type. He was meek and quiet and polite. But that wouldn’t matter to his father when he caved the bastard’s chest in like he had done Rhaegar Targaryen. Then he would turn his hammer on Cersei and his siblings and then—

Gendry snapped out of his train of thinking as Arya shook him lightly.

“Are you alright? I was calling you.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I’m just…” Gendry suddenly felt like the eyes of Balerion were blazing down on him in judgement, like the skull was going to reanimate right there and burn him for his dishonesty.

“Gendry?” Arya asked, her concern turning to suspicion.

“Do you want to go get a drink?” He blurted out. She narrowed her eyes further at him.

“I need a drink, so I’m going to get a drink. You can come if you want.” He mumbled before turning and walking out of the chamber. Arya followed him after a moment. He felt her gaze along with the dragons’ burning into him every step he took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be much longer.  
> Questions and Comments welcome.


	8. Arya III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya meets some of Gendry's friends, reminisces on past lovers and has an encounter that leaves her shaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of talk about sex in this chapter but nothing too explicit. Fair forewarning.

Something was wrong with Prince Gendry. Arya knew it the moment his demeanor suddenly changed when they visited Balerion’s skull, but that observation had slowly made its way to the back of her mind as he led her to the lower towns. The people greeted him readily when he arrived and he greeted some by name. They seemed to like him, more than they liked his father or mother at any rate. The Street of Steel was where he truly shined and Arya loved it as well. Everywhere she looked there were men working and warping metal to create chest plates, gauntlets, helms, swords, daggers and all manner of other weapons. He knew everyone there, stopping to hold conversations with them like nothing was wrong and introducing Arya to others. A man named Tobho Mott took interest in her dagger. He was one of the few men who could work Valyrian steel and was interested in buying it. He offered an obscene amount of money, but Arya refused him.

Eventually she and the prince ended up at a pub. It was a lively place. The patrons included mostly men but there were some women sitting at their tables talking to them. Some of them were clearly whores trying to entice customers to one of the many brothels, others were travelers and tavern wenches.

“Gendry!” A voice called over the crowd. Gendry nodded for her to follow him and the two went towards a table where sat a teenaged boy with dirty, straw colored blonde hair. Interestingly, his hands were dyed green. It reminded Arya of Wylla Manderly’s hair. Next to him sat a fat teenager with a smile on his face wearing an apron.

“Haven’t seen you in a while.” The blonde boy said.

“Yeah, well some of us have jobs to do and duties to fulfill, don’t we Hot Pie?” Gendry retorted.

“Hey, I got a job. Well, I’m ‘tween jobs right now, sort of. But s’not my fault Master Teele is too busy fucking whores ever since ‘is wife left ‘im to take any real jobs. S’no wonder why she pulled a runner.” The blonde teen protested, his Flea Bottom accent heavy.

“Oi, watch your mouth. There’s a girl.” The fat teen, Hot Pie apparently, protested.

“Oh, hi.” The blonde boy said, suddenly looking shy as he stared at Arya.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got four brothers, it’s nothing I haven’t heard before… or said.” The boys, commonfolk by the way they talked, looked at her with some surprise.

“Boys, this is Arya. Arya, these are my friends Lommy and Hot Pie.” Arya rose an eyebrow at the names but greeted the boys easily enough.

“You look hungry.” Hot Pie noted after greeting her.

“I am a little, I guess.” Arya admitted.

“I’ll make you a meat pie. I make the best meat pies, trust me.”

“Something to drink too, Hot Pie.” Gendry requested, sitting down across from Lommy.

“Wine for you I suppose, m’lady.” Hot Pie said.

“It’s just Arya. And have you got any black beer?” Hot Pie and Gendry looked surprised at the request.

“We do but since it’s imported from the North, it costs a bit more.”

“That’s fine. Keep them coming.” Arya replied. She was used to drinking black beer. It was stronger than most beers and ales, not as smooth as autumn beer but that suited her tastes just fine.

“So how do you two know each other?” Arya asked, looking between Lommy and Gendry.

“We met during a job he asked me to do. He wanted to get 'is sister a dress that matched 'er eyes and he brought the dress to the dyer’s. I did the job all on me own.”

“Did it turn out well?” Arya asked. Gendry snorted whilst Lommy look down with embarrassment.

“Nah, I butchered it completely. Might as well've ruined it. The dress turned out yellow with black spots in the end, not green. The prince was gracious enough not to tell Master Teele 'bout it. We ended up spending a whole day and most of the night trying to hunt down a dress the right coloring with no luck. Then, when he gave 'er the dress, the princess loved it. She said she was happy to have a dress in 'er father’s colors rather than 'er mother’s for once. Imagine that.” Lommy said, his voice high and excitable. Something about the latter part of his comments caused Gendry’s mood to visibly darken. Hot Pie chose that moment to return with the beer for Arya and whatever Gendry chose to drink. He practically guzzled the mug down in one shot and waved for more from Hot Pie. Arya sipped from her mug at a much more sedate rate.

Hot Pie was an efficient server bringing a whole jug of whatever Gendry was drinking for him and a meat pie for them both. The pie was delicious, the meat succulent and bread perfectly buttered and soft.

“Mmm, this is good.” Arya commented between bites.

“You think so?” Hot Pie said, his face lighting up.

“Here we go,” Lommy groused. Arya wasn’t sure about the reason behind Lommy's sentiment until Hot Pie subsequently went off on a 15-minute rant about the endless benefits to browning the butter before making the pie crust. Arya almost regretted asking but his rant did pull Gendry from his funk and he quipped playfully with his friends. It surprised Arya that the people the prince called friends would be people of such modest means. He was different than Joffrey, he didn’t look down on people as much. She didn’t think even Robb had any commoners he could count as true friends, or her father for that matter.

She was sure she spent hours there in revelry with Gendry and his friends. It didn’t once feel strange to her, to sit down and laugh and make conversation with the three. She should be more cautious. She should be wary of any interaction they have lest it lead to a betrothal she didn’t want, but she found that when the prince wasn’t being generally annoying he was actually… pretty sweet and funny and he seemed like a good person. He also wasn’t horrible to look at. Arya still remembered him sauntering up to her shirtless at the practice yards. She wasn’t a septa by any means and she was a woman grown, her body reacted as any woman’s would. She would never admit that to anyone though no matter what.

Arya was regaling the boys with a story of her time in Braavos after she and Robb went away with Jon. It had been an eventful time. She had saved the life of a Faceless Man and thwarted the assassination of an actress by another one of the Faceless. The Faceless Man had given her a name and she used it to kill the other Faceless Assassin and save Lady Crane. She had been a nice woman. Arya still thought of her from time to time. She even entertained the notion of taking up the woman’s offer and joining her troupe but ultimately hadn’t, if only to save herself from the grief her mother would give her.

Just as she was reaching the conclusion of the story, a beautiful girl walked up to the table and draped herself on Gendry’s shoulder. The girl was older than Arya, probably around Gendry’s age, and taller than her too. She was clearly of the Summer Isles, her skin a deep ebony shade and smooth in the torch's light. Her hair was a rough texture that Arya hadn't seen before and was let loose in a wild mane that spread out like a halo around her head.

“Hello there, my prince.” She spoke with a slight accent to her voice.

“Hey Yaya. Your mother let you out early?”

“She has been teaching me to run the place since that bad business with your grandfather. There are many Northerners at the brothel tonight, she had no time to teach me so she sent me off.” The girl explained. Perhaps it was the drink, but something in Arya shifted uncomfortably at seeing how the girl was draped over Gendry and how receptive he was to her touch, a girl who apparently worked in a whorehouse.

“Hello.” Arya said, a little too loudly.

“Hello.” The girl said simply, blinking innocently at Arya.

“This is Alayaya, a friend of mine. Yaya, this is Arya.” Alayaya smiled sweetly at Arya.

“Your name is close to mine. I like it a lot. Perhaps I shall remember it for my own daughter one day.” Arya blinked at the benign comment. The girl was so… sweet. Arya suddenly felt bad for feeling… jealous? If that was what that was. Maybe she was just drunk. She should probably stop drinking soon.

“Are whores allowed to have daughters at Chataya’s?” Lommy asked. Alayaya rolled her eyes at the question.

“Of course. My mother wouldn’t force anyone to drink moon tea or any other tea who did not want to. Your half-sister says ‘hello’ by the way, Gendry. She liked the books you sent, though it did take her some time to read them. She is getting better with her letters and numbers by the day though.” Gendry nodded in reply.

“Give Barra a kiss from me when you see her.”

“You are Northern, no?” Alayaya asked Arya suddenly.

“Yes.”

“What is wrong with your men?” Arya rose an eyebrow at the vague question.

“Plenty, I’m sure. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The way they act at the brothel, it is as if they had never been to one before.”

“There’s only one brothel in the Winter Town. It’s small, no more than fifteen whores. I suppose the excess is getting to them. Sorry if they’re too rowdy.” Alayaya shook her head.

“No, not at all. It’s not good to be so repressed and pent up. My mother always says, ‘the Gods made our bodies as well as our souls. They gave us voices, so we might worship them with song. They gave us hands, so we might build them temples. And they gave us desire, so we might mate and worship them in that way.’ These men are only worshiping in that way. Your gods are not here in the South, isn’t it so? My people’s gods are not here either but in this way, both they and my people can worship here.”

“That’s an interesting way of looking at it.” Arya commented. She had heard similar views in Essos, where things were not as restrictive and proper as Westeros but still, getting Alayaya’s perspective on things was interesting considering what Arya knew and how she felt about past events.

“My people hold that there is no shame to be found in brothels or pillowhouses. In the Summer Isles, those who are skilled at giving pleasure are greatly esteemed. Many highborn youths and maidens serve for a few years after their flowerings, to honor the Gods. I served in my mother’s house until I became involved in some bad business. She has since not made me serve anymore unless I have wanted to.” Arya imagined her mother allowing her to serve in a whorehouse after she flowered to seemingly honor the Gods and laughed at the thought.

“My mother would probably lock me away in a tower forever for such a notion.”

“You mean you have never gotten to experience pleasure or desire?” Alayaya asked, sounding aghast. Arya was acutely aware that Gendry, Lommy and Hot Pie were there but Alayaya didn’t seem embarrassed or bothered in the least. Arya could lie but,

  1. She didn’t want to.
  2. Alayaya seemed too innocent and sweet and concerned for her to lie to her.
  3. This confession would surely make certain that no betrothal was possible between her or any of the princes (because that was still a problem she was dealing with; no amount of meat pies or mugs of beer changed the fact that Arya had no interest in being a princess or any man’s wife in general).



“I’m not a maiden.” Alayaya all but breathed a sigh of relief whilst Lommy and Hot Pie tried unsuccessfully to hide their surprise and Gendry, his curiosity. Arya rolled her eyes.

“I told you, I joined my brother on several expeditions on his ship. I met a member of his crew, Larence Snow. Larence was… nice. He was witty and courageous. I was stowing away that first time, no one knew or was supposed to know. Larence found me but didn’t tell anyone. He was the only person I had to talk to until we hit land and I revealed myself to my brother. That way he wouldn’t be able to send me back. Larence and I talked a lot and one night, one thing led to another and we laid together.” It was nowhere near the most romantic experience. It was in the hull of the ship surrounded by crates and barrels. Arya hadn’t known what she was doing and neither had Larence. It was over quickly but he was sweet to her and tried not to hurt her.

“I didn’t know highborn ladies did such things.” Hot Pie commented, his eyes wide.

“Arya’s not a lady.” Gendry commented. Arya looked over at him but he didn’t say it in a way that was meant to be derisive or mocking, he was just stating fact as she had told him before.

“What happened with this Larence?” Alayaya asked. Arya shrugged.

“We didn’t know what we were doing at all, we were just barely fourteen then. We laid together twice more after that. But the last time we did, my brother Jon caught us and well…” Arya trailed off, remembering the haunted look on Jon’s face when he walked in on Larence on top of her before he grabbed the younger boy off her and started swinging him around the room, throwing him into walls and the like while Arya was frozen in horror. Jon was going to throw him overboard into the sea before Arya stopped him. Larence didn’t approach her again after that to her annoyance. The boys and Alayaya laughed at what must be a particularly funny expression on Arya’s face.

“I’m guessing it didn’t go well.” Gendry stated more than questioned.

“You’d guess correctly. Anyway, Larence avoided me like I had caused the Doom after that. I was so angry at Jon for stopping our relationship that the first chance I got, I visited a brothel with his crew. He’d never go there if he didn’t have to but he wanted to watch me. I still slipped pass him and went off with someone there to spite him. She showed me a much better time than Larence at least, she showed me what to do.”

“She?” Gendry, Lommy and Hot Pie asked, their eyes widening and looking at her with greater interest. Alayaya let out a high, musical laugh.

“Men. They are so easy to interest, are they not? One word here, an implication there and their minds wander so far from them.” Arya shared a smile with Alayaya.

“It is good to be taught these ways. Westerosi mothers should talk about these things and teach their daughters as mothers in the Summer Isles do.”

“My mother will know nothing about what I’ve done. My father neither. Jon has told none of my family and I won’t either.” Not even Jon knew everything she had done. It wasn’t like she was going to share every flirtation and kiss with her big brother. She had let some things slip to Sansa but no one knew all of Arya’s exploits but Arya.

“Don’t you worry though?” Lommy asked.

“About what?” Arya replied.

“Ain't it important for highborn ladies to be… unruined?” He asked, his mouth twisting unfavorably at the last word, like he was thinking something else but didn't have the vocabulary for the word.

“It is but I don’t have any plans to marry anyone. My parents haven’t sought to make a betrothal either, not for lack of trying on my mother’s part. I doubt it’ll ever happen. I’ve made sure of it over the years.” Alayaya chuckled in response.

“I’ve not met many women who do not want to marry. Even at the brothel the girls dream of husbands and marriage beds.”

“That’s not me.” Arya replied simply. That simple statement had been a mantra her whole life to remain strong by her convictions and what she wanted for herself. She didn’t want her parents to know the truth, she didn’t want to disappoint them but if a marriage she really didn’t want was put forth, she would tell the truth about her status as a maiden and make sure any betrothal fell through. Arya wasn’t sure what must’ve fallen on her face, but Gendry knocked his elbow into her arm companionably and leaned in as if telling some grand secret, though he whispered very loudly.

“Between you and me, I’m no maiden either.” Arya rolled her eyes and smacked his arm.

“Oh, with a chest like yours I can only imagine.” Her eyes widened, and she felt a blush coloring her cheeks as she realized what she just said.

“Stare long at my chest, have you?” Gendry retorted playfully. Arya cleared her throat, refusing to let on how embarrassed she was.

“Considering you brandish it every time we spar as if your shirt is a hindrance to your fighting, I’ve not have much choice.” She replied.

“Yes, Gendry likes to flaunt his assets. It is something men get to do so flagrantly. If a woman does she must be a whore. There is nothing wrong with it but if it is not the path a woman chooses, why should she be recognized as such? A lady shows her ankles and the high lords faint at court and then they come to my mother’s brothel and wish to be tied up and beaten by a whore and taken by a whore. It is ridiculous. Men and women should just be who they are and love who they want. No wonder you Westerosi are so angry all the time.” Alayaya commented with a shake of the head.

“What do you mean ‘taken’ by a whore?” Lommy asked with confusion. Gendry shook his head in response to deter Alayaya giving an answer.

“Tell me more about the Summer Isles. I’ve not yet gotten the chance to visit.” Arya asked, hoping to push images of Gendry shirtless out of her mind and ignore the previous topics of conversation. Alayaya launched into talks about the Summer Isles, memories from her childhood and stories from her mother abounding her tales. Arya in turn talked about the North and Gendry the Stormlands and the Westerlands. It was hours later that Gendry and Arya walked out of the pub, Alayaya going back towards the brothel after extracting a promise from Arya to visit her.

Arya and Gendry made to walk towards the keep when Gendry stumbled a little causing Arya to grab him.

“Okay, you’re way too big for me to drag back to the Red Keep so you better not pass out or you’re sleeping on the street.” Arya warned, throwing an arm around his waist to help support him.

“M’not that drunk.”

“It shows.” She replied sarcastically. The walk back to the Red Keep was longer than it would’ve been if Gendry could walk straight. Arya felt the fuzz in her head as well brought on by the beer, but she still had enough of her wits about her to walk properly unlike Gendry. They walked to the proper entrance, Arya not wishing to drag him through tunnels and secret passageways in this state. The guards let them through the gates with gazes of amusement. The stairs were a cruel challenge sent by the Gods, but they weathered it together.

Arya walked the prince into his room and deposited him on the bed. She managed to coax him to sit up so she could remove his jacket and she pulled off his boots too. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t done before. She had put Jon, Robb and Bran to bed before after drunken nights, and even Theon a couple of times.

“I’ll ask a maid to leave you something in the morning to ease the hangover.” Arya said after opening the window to let some air into the room.

She moved to leave but Prince Gendry grabbed her hand and pulled her down to the bed to sit beside him.

“Wait, I have a question to ask you.” He said, his eyes drooping almost closed, but he was powering through it.

“What is it?” Arya asked, some amusement slipping into her voice at his behavior.

“Were you in love with him?”

“Who?”

“Larence Snow. When you and he laid together, were you in love with him?”

“Why do you care?” Arya asked cautiously, unsure about his line of questioning.

“No real reason. I just… I’ve never been. I’ve never been in love, not with any of the women I’ve laid with. I’ve liked some, called some friends but I never was in love with them. My parents aren’t in love. My uncles aren’t in love with their wives. I don’t know if my father’s parents were. My mother’s parents were in love but my grandfather never talks about my grandmother enough for me to know what it was like. Myrcella barely knows Prince Trystane but is practically in love with him so I can’t really trust her opinion. So, I want to know if you were in love with him and if you were, what was it like?” Arya was struck silent at the explanation. Her parents loved each other but there was always some tension between them due to Jon and cultural differences and other things Arya could only speculate on. Robb and Wynafryd loved each other but their relationship also started due to the benefits Fryd’s family could get from theirs’. Sansa and Domeric loved each other but that was luck, it could’ve been something totally different but she would have had to marry him either way. Even so, Arya could see the love between the three couples every time they were together. Arya and Larence…

“I don’t know. I don’t know if what I felt for him was love. He made me feel normal, not like I was being watched all the time by everyone and expected to be something I didn’t want to be. He made me feel free. No, that’s not right. He made me feel… rebellious. He made me want more, want to do more with myself than what my parents said I should do as a lady. But then again, I was fourteen and I ended up getting some of what I wanted without him and that didn’t bother me. I moved on fairly quickly afterwards and had greater attractions and connections to other people I’ve met. I have never regretted what I did with him but I haven’t thought of him much lately.” She couldn’t even remember Larence’s voice really. She remembered him on top of her and his stuttering movements, remembered the slight burn and pain when he first entered her, remembered him apologizing and promising to be better next time. He _was_ better the next time but not by very much. Learning how to be with men from Doreah at the brothel in Lys was a much better time and though she laid with two others afterwards, it didn't bother her one way or another to be without Larence.

“Oh. Do you think you’ll ever be in love and know it for sure?” Gendry asked. Arya looked down at his face as he stared up at her with ocean blue eyes filled with honest curiosity.

“I don’t know.” Arya answered honestly. She didn’t expect Larence, especially after being told for so long that she was just Arya Horseface, (and Sansa had long stopped Jeyne’s taunts, but they still stuck in her head) she didn’t expect any man to look at her and desire her and she didn’t expect to truly desire a man. Larence hadn’t been a man, he had just been a boy and Arya had been a girl who didn’t know what she was doing. She was a woman now and she knew what to do. Gendry was a man with a man’s body and a man’s desire. She could see it in his eyes now as his gaze shifted to her lips. Arya’s body was buzzing from the beer she had drank and was a little keyed up thanks to the improper conversations she had with Alayaya and memories of Larence and Doreah coming back. She pushed the thoughts away and stood up quickly from the bed.

“I better get to my room. Someone might be looking for me. Good night, Prince Gendry.” She said, trying to inject some formality into her voice despite the informality of the night thus far.

“Just Gendry.” He mumbled as she turned to walk away.

“Gendry.” She corrected under her breath and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her. She leaned her head against the door with a sigh. What the hell was that? What was she thinking? What was _he_ thinking? She needed to be more careful.

“What are you doing wandering the halls?” Arya jumped as she turned towards the voice talking to her and froze a little inside as she saw it was King Robert standing there, a mug in his hand. She quickly bowed and mumbled a greeting.

“Did you just bow to me, girl?” The king asked. Arya internally cursed herself for the oversight.

“Um, maybe?” She replied. To her surprise the king started laughing loudly. Arya glanced at the door, worried he would wake Gendry.

“Why are you around here anyway? Your chambers are on the other side of the keep, are they not?”

“They are. We just got back in. That is to say, Prince Gendry and I. He was showing me around earlier and time got away from us.” She explained in a neutral tone. King Robert didn’t look happy with that explanation, but she wasn’t sure why.

“Spend a lot of time with my son, do you?” Arya shrugged lightly.

“I suppose one might see it that way. He’s been kind to me. I’m not much for womanly arts so I wouldn’t subject Princess Myrcella to suffer my lack of talent with a needle and often Prince Tommen is uncomfortable around Nymeria. Prince Joffrey is afraid of her. Prince Gendry does not seem so.” She replied, trying to remain as honest and emotionless in her answer while also worrying over every word and hoping none planted any seeds in his head but he still didn’t look anymore enthused about her answer and her spending time with Gendry than he had before, so perhaps she was free from betrothal plans.

“I’ve noticed you two sparring together.” The king commented further.

“Well, the other men seem to be too afraid to face me. Mayhaps they don’t want to be beaten by a woman.” The king laughed loudly again, the liquid in his mug sloshing about at his motion.

“Just like Lyanna. She was always wilder than anything, not much for refinement. Growing up with only brothers and no mother will do that to you, I suppose. But she was beautiful, so beautiful. Gods, you look just like her. Act like her too.” Arya stared up at the king wide-eyed as he stared at her with glazed over eyes, seeing her but not seeing _her_. She tensed up as the king stepped closer to her, his hand outstretched to touch her face. Arya flinched a little when his hand met her cheek and she had to fight the urge to pull either of her weapons. This was the king after all, not some handsy guard or lecherous lord.

“Your Grace, I must remind you that I am _Arya_ and not my aunt. I—”

“Yes, yes I know. But you couldn’t understand it. To love someone for so long and miss them so fiercely. You want to know the horrible truth? Most days I can’t even remember what she looked like or how her voice sounded or how she smiled at me or her lips on mine. I only know she was the one thing I ever wanted. And then you come breezing into the courtyard, like Lyanna reincarnated and those memories… it’s like they never left at all.” Arya swallowed roughly, trying to figure out a way to get out of this situation without using force against the king.

“King Robert, I… I’m sorry for your loss. Truly I am. I wish I could’ve known my aunt, I think I would’ve liked her a lot.” Arya said, trying to channel her mother’s fake politeness and ladylike courtesy even as the king stepped closer to her, his larger frame dwarfing her own as he practically towered over her.

“She would’ve liked you. You could’ve been my daughter in another life. But this isn’t that life, is it?” The king was twirling a strand of her hair around one of his fingers now. She wanted nothing more than to take her Valyrian steel dagger and cut the offending finger off, but she wasn’t sure what the proper thing to do now would be. An action like that could result in a fatal retaliation towards her family.

“Your Grace, please I really must go now to—” Arya stopped talked when one of his fingers brushed against her lips. Her fingers started inching towards her dagger now, consequences be damned. She couldn’t let this go on any further, but her mind still whirled with possibilities of how much direr this situation would become if she truly did decide to draw her weapon or if he pushed any further than he had already just done.

“Arya?” She turned around to see Sansa approaching the scene cautiously. She looked between Arya and the king, critically assessing the scene. King Robert snapped out of whatever haze he’d been in and stepped away from her.

“I thank you for locating my sister, Your Grace. My siblings and I have been looking all over for her. They’ll be glad to know she was safe with you.” Sansa said courteously as she stepped up beside Arya and linked their arms together.

“Perhaps you should run along then.” The king said. Sansa nodded and curtsied before the king before dragging Arya off. She waited until they were around the corner and well away from the king before speaking.

“What was that?” She asked with concern. Arya stopped in her tracks and slumped against the wall, the full weight of the interaction crashing down on her. She had stood there helpless, all because she had to play a stupid role, because of titles. She didn’t know what she would have done if he tried to do more than just touch her hair or lips, gods forbid try to kiss her. And if she had done anything, if she had defended herself and he felt like it, she could be executed and her family disgraced or killed alongside her. Her father had warned her, hadn’t he? He told her they were going to a dangerous place, but Arya hadn’t imagined this.

Sansa stepped towards Arya and pulled her into a hug as her body shook with revulsion. It could’ve been worse, so much worse but still she couldn’t get the look on his face out of her mind.

“I don’t know. He was drunk. He kept talking about Aunt Lyanna.” Arya mumbled against Sansa’s chest as she hugged her tighter. Sansa silently held her for a long while, stroking her hair lightly as Mother might’ve done to calm her down. Eventually Arya stopped shaking enough to pull away from Sansa, only slightly embarrassed over her behavior. Sansa stared down at her with concern, wheels almost visibly turning in her head.

“I’ll figure this out, okay? Just do your best to stay away from him.” Arya had no plans to be alone with the king again if she could help it, not after his display. As for Prince Gendry, well he was another matter and she was too tired to worry over it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions and comments are welcome.


	9. Eddard I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned reflects on his children and finds himself balancing a tightrope between love and duty when Robert makes a request he doesn't allow Ned to refuse.

Ned loved all his children. It was true they were all different from one another and it could make for some difficult times when those personalities clashed but that was no different than himself, Brandon, Lyanna and Benjen. Even Catelyn could understand that having grown up with Edmure and Lysa who were polar opposites from her.

No matter how they argued and fought though, he knew his children loved each other and only wanted to protect the other if necessary. That was all Ned ever wanted either. After losing so much of his family to the South, the idea of losing his children that way was one he could never stomach or allow. He kept them close to him at Winterfell. Perhaps too close.

Their children were the one thing he and Catelyn could never fully agree upon, but sending them away had been something neither wanted until they were sure they were of a proper age. Ned had been sent away at only 8 years old to the Eyrie and when he became Lord of Winterfell it was difficult for him, considering he did not know the lords of Winterfell nearly as well as Brandon or even Benjen had. He wouldn’t send his children off at such a tender age and risk alienating them from their family and the North itself. For all Catelyn wanted them raised in the vain of Southerners, she also didn’t want to send any of them away to foster.

Robb leaving was out of the question as he was the heir and they agreed on that. Catelyn had managed to find some part of her that was okay letting Sansa go, letting her foster in Highgarden. Ned was the one who couldn’t find peace with that. Every night Sansa was gone, he had nightmares about his father burning in the throne room and Brandon choking to death and Lyanna slipping away in his arms. He couldn’t bear having Sansa in the South, so despite how happy she seemed there and Catelyn’s protestations he brought her back home after a year away, killing any chance of her betrothal to any of the Reach lords.

Ned wanted his children to stay in the North and he would’ve had them fostered in the North as well. He would’ve sent Arya to Bear Island where the women learned fighting along with the feminine arts, so she could find a place to fit in. He would’ve sent Bran to White Harbor where the Southern influence was strongest, so he could train with knights who were Northmen as well. He would’ve sent Rickon to Last Hearth where Greatjon could hone his wildness into skill and battle metal. Robb, Sansa and Jon would’ve been made to remain with Ned in Winterfell. But Catelyn would not abide her children to leave home to go stay with other Northern families. She felt Arya and Rickon needed refinement, not to have their wildness indulged, and Bran should learn from proper knights. He loved his wife, but her opinions of the North could still be as Southron as ever.

Jon, though. Jon had always been a bone of contention. Ned struggled for years of whether to tell her the truth, whether that would make things better or worse. He could never make himself say the words to her, no scenario in his head ended with him telling her. Maybe it was cowardice on his part and he knew he'd be judged by the gods for allowing both Jon and Catelyn to remain in his household hurting and hurting each other. But even knowing the tension under his roof, he would’ve never sent Jon away, not at Catelyn’s insistence at least. But Jon had wanted to leave and that was an entirely separate situation. Ned hadn’t realized just how unhappy and constrained Jon felt in Winterfell until he started running away from home.

He ran at thirteen the first time to try to join the Night’s Watch but Yoren brought him back, saying he was too young and they wouldn’t take him without Ned’s permission until he was a man grown. Ned didn’t and wouldn’t give his permission. He was upset with Jon but he wouldn’t tell him why he left, no matter the threats of punishment Ned landed at him. He ran again at fifteen, figuring he was old enough, but Benjen brought him back. That time Ned unequivocally forbade him to join the Night’s Watch and sent a letter to the Lord Commander that should Jon ever run to any of the castles along The Wall, he was to be returned to Winterfell immediately. Ned didn’t want to think of Jon at The Wall, a place of little more than thieves and rapists at the time. Yes, a bastard could rise high in the ranks and may become Lord Commander one day, but Jon had a home at Winterfell. There was no need for him to shuffle off to a place so cold and desolate. Ned hadn’t been able to stop Benjen but if he could stop Jon he would. Besides which, he knew Lyanna would never allow her son to live that life.

He and Jon had had a long argument about it that featured more shouting than either was ever known to do and angry blustering on both sides but in between that, Jon laid out how few options he had. He had little in the way to forge a path for himself. He didn’t want any charity from Robb or his father or anyone else, he wanted to make his own way. Ned had never felt so guilty as he had in that moment. He had never actually had a conversation with Jon about the possibilities for his future, had he? Maybe it was because he couldn't make himself have that conversation without telling Jon the truth and he didn't want to ever tell him the truth, not just because it may mean losing a son but because if the wrong person heard such a conversation it could mean Jon's life or their entire family's. The shame and sense of failure had been overwhelming then. He felt he failed his son and Lyanna.

Wyman Manderly’s raven regarding how he heard of Ned’s troubles with his natural son and would foster him and teach him the ways of sailing and trading must’ve been ordained by the Gods. Or, more likely, it was the ploy of a lord to raise himself in the eyes of his liege but Ned let the ulterior motive go because it turned out to be one of the best decisions for his family he had ever made.

Jon didn’t just learn sailing and trading, though he found his niche there, he learned about other trades from the diverse visitors of White Harbor. He learned more about the world itself when he wasn’t sheltered in Winterfell from it. The change in scenery and environment had helped his son forge himself into a man, helped to give him self-confidence he didn’t possess in his youth living in Winterfell with Catelyn. And it helped Robb and Wynafryd meet. Robb had always been a responsible boy, even when he was having great responsibility thrust upon his shoulders at a young age. When Jon left, Ned knew Robb grew lonely even with Theon there, but it also helped Robb mature on his own. He had to learn to rely on himself and his own thoughts without Jon there. Still, the boys never lost their closeness and so they were together when they could be upon his visits and one or both Manderly girls always seemed to be there. Sansa had seen the frequency in the girls' visits for what it was and warned Ned but he didn’t see as much harm in it as Sansa. Wynafryd and Wylla wanted to elevate their house as any good daughter would. Robb had to see that, had to learn how to deal with that on his own and had to know for himself what the consequences of any decisions he made would be. What would happen would end up in Robb’s hands ultimately. He was a man grown at the time, eight and ten, old enough to know what may result from any action he took.

Ned wasn’t overly surprised by Robb’s surprise announcement to marry Wynafryd, even though he had his suspicions as to why. But Ned liked and approved of her. She and Robb seemed to love each other, she got along with the family, including Catelyn, and she had given him three beautiful granddaughters.

He had been content with his life as it was before he came South: Robb happily married, Sansa happily married, Arya happily unmarried, Jon having found his place in the world, Bran and Rickon training and growing into fine young men.

And then the summons South.

 _Starks don’t last long in the South._ He’d told Catelyn.

She had told him he was worrying too much. It was a different time and a different king but he still could not refuse the king’s request, he was no longer simply his friend after-all. He thought Catelyn was worrying about the wrong thing, Robert was as a brother to him and would never harm his family but he knew he was wrong the moment he saw his old friend. He had let himself go, had fallen into drink and whores as a way to fill a void in him. Ned had been able to fill the void his family left with more family but Robert was never close to his family and all the whores and women in the world couldn’t replace Lyanna in his heart. Furthermore, Ned knew something was wrong the moment he saw his face upon meeting Jon and Arya. The way he looked at Jon was the way he looked at Rhaegar and the way he looked at Arya was the way he looked at Lyanna. He hadn’t seen the king approach Jon at all since the meeting and Ned told him to stay away just in case. He didn’t think Robert knew the truth. How could he? Only Ned and Howland knew and Howland would never betray Lyanna. And surely, he’d have killed Jon by now if he had. As for Arya, Ned worried. He always worried about Arya. She was so much like Lyanna and Lyanna had ended up dead. He didn’t want to make the same mistakes with his wild daughter that his father made with his but he also wanted to protect Arya. How was he to do so against Robert, his king, his friend, his brother, the man he helped to put on the throne?

In turn, he wasn’t surprised when Sansa sought him out one day to tell him about what she had witnessed between Arya and Robert.

“Arya says she is fine but she slept in Jon’s room last night. She came to break her fast with us this morning but then returned to her room and hasn’t spoken much at all since it happened.” Sansa reported, her face unreadable. Ned sighed heavily, running his hand through Frostfang’s fur to calm himself as the large direwolf sat beside his chair. He noticed Lady wasn’t with Sansa, probably with Domeric. Not for the first time he wished he had found a way to deny Robert’s request or at least leave Jon and Arya home. They had been the two he least wanted to come to this place or to ever meet Robert.

“I will talk to Robert about this.”

“You will not.” Sansa retorted immediately. Ned levelled her with a look for her commanding tone towards him. Sansa sighed and sat down across from him, her back straight. He knew he was not talking to his daughter who flitted around Winterfell with a head full of songs. Sansa was a woman grown now with her head full of calculations, schemes and plans that Ned didn’t want to begin to unpack. Some days he regretted allowing her to ever go to Highgarden or maintain a correspondence with Margaery Tyrell but other days he thought of how much she had grown and how smart she was and could not be upset that she had found a way to survive in this world. Her strength was not the same as Arya’s but her wits were as much a weapon as Needle. So upon seeing which version of his daughter he now sat across from, he sat up straighter and slipped into what his children used to call his lord face.

“Speaking frankly, the king is a fat, drunken lecher who cannot find the decency to stay in his marriage bed, even with honored guests in his home. Having witnessed his abhorrent behavior, do you think he would have a problem making an advance on Arya, despite propriety? He impregnated Lady Delena Florent, his good-sister’s cousin, with his bastard in the marriage bed of his own brother on his wedding day. He has gotten children on his wife’s cousins and other members of her family. Do you think he would find boundaries with your daughter just because you are his friend? His friend whom he has not seen in over two decades? Arya is wild and untamable and besides that, more beautiful than she realizes and unattached. She is the kind of woman men would like to chase for the challenge of it. More than that, he sees Aunt Lyanna in her.”

“Which is all the more reason to step in now.”

“No, you should not. Some words from you will not change the eyes from which a drunk man sees.”

“What is it you think I should be doing then, Lady Bolton? Sit idle? Surely not.” Ned replied evenly, his fingers twitching in Frostfang’s grey fur.

“Of course not. You must speak to him, yes, but not about Arya. If he does not bring her up then you don’t and you mustn’t act at all like you know the truth. He’ll know either I or Arya told you and I would have him act as normal as possible around us while I investigate other matters.”

“Other matters?” Sansa quirked a knowing smile.

“His greeting towards Jon was most odd, wasn’t it? It wasn’t that way for nothing. I will find out why eventually and we may discuss it then but as for Arya, I have told her to avoid him where she can. You need to talk to the king and prime him as much as you can about the fact that we cannot stay here much longer and will have to be on our way home soon. I will continue to keep an eye on things and ask around to see if anything has gone horribly amiss lately.”

“Other than the Queen nearly being killed by a would-be assassin and the Hand and a member of the Kingsguard dying, you mean?” Ned replied dryly.

“Yes Father, other than that.” Sansa replied, her tone indulgent before her mouth went down into a troubled frown.

“I wonder…” Ned watched Sansa trail off into troubled thoughts. She did that sometimes, almost without realizing it. Even though she resembled Catelyn the most out of any of his children, when she got that look on her face all he saw was his mother sitting by a window in Winterfell, rocking Lyanna in her arms and thinking deeply.

“He’s going to ask you to succeed him, you know?” Sansa said suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

“King Robert, he’s going to ask you to be his Hand. Mother suspected as much and I agreed with her. It makes sense. He’s known you for a long time and he trusts you. If he pays enough attention to possible betrothals, he can use it as an incentive to have you agree.”

“I would never. My place is in the North with my family and my gods, not in this place.”

“Mother would say you have a duty to accept the honors your king bestows upon you.”

“Honors? Is that what it would be, running the kingdom whilst Robert drinks and whores himself into an early grave?” Ned asked rhetorically, sitting back in his seat with a sigh of discontent.

“An earlier grave at the very least.” Sansa replied, distant amusement in her voice.

“But then Prince Gendry would be king, so there’s a silver lining.”

“Sansa.” Ned reprimanded her. His eldest daughter's maturity came with sly little remarks like that that Ned understood were Sansa's quiet rebellion where Arya's rebellion was loud and often messy. Sansa didn’t seem concerned by her father's chastisement anymore than Arya would've been.

“What do you make of the crown prince, Father?” Ned took some time to think on the lad. He was like Robert made young again but he also didn’t seem as rowdy or lecherous as he had been. He seemed worried over something a lot and stuck close to his mother, but that was understandable seeing as how the Queen was recently attacked (though Robert hadn’t been concerned or grieved in the least at her pain or Jaime Lannister’s death).

“He seems a strong man, a good head on his shoulders, polite and learned in his courtesies. He wields a hammer well.”

“Yes, but he also seems like he will be more than just a king preoccupied with battle or wars. He has care for his family and the smallfolk like and trust him more than his brothers, more than Prince Joffrey anyway. I would consider him for Arya more than the other princes if betrothals are at all possible. King Robert won’t live forever and having a blood relative in the royal family would not suit our family ill.” Sansa said, almost in a daze as she was wrapped up in her own mind and probably barely noted Ned was even there anymore.

“Arya would never. She doesn’t want to be a princess, much less a queen.”

“Not yet but she will eventually. Not for the crown but for other incentives.” Ned stared at Sansa, confused at her words. Sansa snapped out of her thoughts and stood up abruptly, fixing her dress.

“Talk to the king, please. And do not let him bully you into accepting any offers.” Sansa said, leaning down to kiss Ned’s cheek and briefly scratch behind Frostfang’s ear before turning to leave. Ned watched her leave the room, her poise dignified and perfect. He saw so much of Catelyn in her, more and more everyday, but she was more too. She had the South in her more than any of his other children. She understood their games and knew how to play them and yet she hadn’t let it destroy her core values. She was a wolf still, a member of their pack even if her bite did not seem as sharp. She used her acquired knowledge for the betterment of her family so Ned didn’t complain or think it so bad. If anything, he counted himself lucky to still have Sansa.

He did not dally to visit Robert. He found him in his solar, the door wide open as he sat behind his desk, a mug of ale in his hand and a rare smile on his face while he spoke with Ser Barristan Selmy. Ned realized why when he caught their thread of conversation.

“It's been a long time. But I still remember every face. You remember your first?”

“Of course, your Grace.”

“Who was it?”

“A Tyroshi. Never learned the name.”

“How'd you do it?”

“Lance through the heart.”

“Quick one. Lucky for you. Mine was some Tarly boy at the Battle of Summerhall.” Ned turned to leave then, figuring he could come back later but just as he did Robert called out to him.

“Ned! Get in here, we’re trading war stories.” Ned and Robert had been trading war stories a lot, sometimes with Prince Gendry and Robb there, sometimes not. Ned didn’t think Robert had a war story he didn’t already know but he learned quickly Robert preferred living in the past to the present. He couldn’t refuse his king this small request and he needed to speak to him anyway so he walked into the room and bowed before Robert.

“Your Grace.”

“You’ve been here a sennight and still with the formalities. Enough of that shit. I was just about to tell Selmy about my first kill. Battle of Summerhall it was. My horse took an arrow so I was on foot, slogging through the mud. He came running at me, this dumb high-born lad, thinking he could end the rebellion with the single swing of his sword. I knocked him down with my hammer. Gods, I was strong then. Caved in his breastplate. Probably shattered every rib he had. I stood over him, hammer in the air. Right before I brought it down he shouted, ‘wait! wait!’ They never tell you how they all shit themselves. They don't put that part in the songs. Stupid boy. Now the Tarlys bend the knee like everyone else. He could have lingered on the edge of the battle with the smart boys and today his wife would be making him miserable, his sons would be ingrates, and he'd be waking three times in the night to piss into a bowl.” Robert said, growing increasingly more acerbic with each word before pouring wine into his mug and downing it.

“And yourself, Lord Stark?” Ser Barristan asked.

“Ned here bloodied before most of us.” Robert commented.

“A clansman. A member of one of the Mountain Clans in The Vale. I must’ve been nine at the time and Lord Arryn took me for a ride. They attacked us on the road. I had some basic weapons training and so when one of the men went for Lord Arryn from behind I managed to gather his attentions, use my dagger to kill him.” Ned recalled, grimly remembering that day. He was glad that Robb, Bran and Jon had not killed a man at so young an age. None of them had to until the conflict between the Freefolk crossing the Wall and the Wildings staying behind became a problem that demanded attention. He knew Arya had also bloodied but not until she was thirteen. Rickon had not yet.

“Gods Ned, you don’t have to sound so down about it. You got an early start on things and you saved the Lord Paramount of the Vale and my future Hand. Would that you could’ve been here to save him this last time.” Robert said, his gaze darkening with anger once more.

“I doubt I could’ve done much to save him if the Grand Maester could not.” Robert stared at him silently for a long moment.

“Jon’s going to be missed, sorely. He’s a hard man to replace. And trust me, I know about trying to replace people. Been doing it for a while yet. Going to have to do it again soon, as soon as I’m rid of that burden of a woman. Cleanse my house of these bloody Lannisters for good and all.” Robert trailed off. Ned traded a confused and concerned look with Ser Barristan.

“Your Gr— Robert, I’m not sure what you mean? Surely you’re not thinking of annulling your marriage.”

“Amongst other things.” He replied darkly. Ned shifted uncomfortably. His mind was blaring like a warning horn.

“Why now? The support of Tywin Lannister—”

“Bugger Tywin Lannister. I’m surrounded by Lannisters. Every time I close my eyes I see their blonde hair and their smug, satisfied faces. I’m bloody tired of it. Let Cersei and her ilk rot in the Seven Hells. Lyanna, your sister, she was a real woman.”

 _She was just a young girl. She was barely seven and ten when she died._  Ned wanted to protest but held his tongue.

“She would’ve made me a fine wife, a good queen. She would’ve never let me get so fat and bitter. She would never be as spiteful and hateful as my whore of a wife.”

_You don’t know that. Lyanna could be as spiteful as any other. She probably went off with Rhaegar to spite you for your actions and your appetites. Would that she could’ve found another way._

“I won that damn war but I lost it because I lost her. Every night I dream of killing him, every night I kill Rhaegar Targaryen all over again. I punch my hammer clear through his chest. I raze his kingdom and his house to the ground. I wipe all memory of his existence from the face of the Earth.” Ned felt a shiver go down his spine as he watched Robert’s face full of coldness and loathing. All he could think of in that moment was the body of Elia Martell, raped and defiled and brutalized, presented on a red blanket like a gift with what had once been her children beside her. Amory Lorch put more stab wounds in Little Rhaenys’ chest than Ned could recall seeing on any man on any battlefield. And the baby, Aegon… the Mountain had crushed his head, rendering him unrecognizable. And Robert had seen their bodies and smiled, said they were nothing to him, nothing but dragonspawn and literally stepped over them to sit on the throne. All Ned could think of was Jon in the same place, his head crushed to nothing, all because a man he’d never met happened to be his blood father.

He glanced over at Ser Barristan and saw how uncomfortable he also seemed to be at the turn in conversation. He had been loyal to the Targaryens for years. It couldn’t have been the first time he’d heard this rant but Ned supposed it didn’t get easier.

“How do you stand it, Ned?” Robert was staring at him with accusatory eyes and Ned was struck silent, unsure how to answer because he wasn’t sure what he was asking him. That question had so many ways it could go and if he answered the wrong thing…

“Your younger daughter, she’s like Lyanna come again. How do you watch her grow up and not long for Lyanna to live once more?” Ned shook his head in reply.

“Of course I long for Lyanna. She was my sister. I miss her every day. She and Brandon and my father, the way they died… If I were to dwell on the unfairness of it I would never be able to raise my family, share a life with them, secure their futures and House Stark’s longevity. I lost my family then, my duty is to protect my family now and I will always take that duty seriously. My family, Catelyn and all six of my children, my gooddaughter, my granddaughters, they come first.” Ned affirmed, feeling the need to make the declaration out loud. The words seemed to fly over Robert’s head but Barristan’s gaze was heavy on him.

“She likes spending time with Gendry, your girl. I caught her coming out of his room last night, said he was showing her around.” Ned’s eyebrows furrowed. Sansa said the exchange she witnessed was near the prince’s room but she didn’t say she saw Arya leave the prince’s chambers.

“Best be careful. Takes after me more than he’d like to admit, that boy. Your daughter may find herself returning home with a royal bastard in her belly. I’d be curious to see it though, to see what my child with Lyanna may have looked like.” Ned felt himself growing increasingly uncomfortable and increasingly angry but he held his tongue.

“Why were you haunting my door anyway, Ned?” Robert asked when Ned did not respond.

“I was just coming to inquire as to the exact dates of the tourney you wish to host for Jon Arryn. I intend to have myself and my family on the road soon after. I would prefer not to be caught up with the others travelling the road.”

“Eager to leave, are you?”

“It is good to see you again but it is a long trip home. Robb misses his girls and Sansa and her husband were to go on to the Dreadfort by now before we received your summons.”

“So let them go.”

“My family prefers to stay together as much as we can.”

“You take all that wolf pack nonsense too seriously. I see your children running around rarely without one sibling or the other. I remember you and your brothers and sister were the same, always together. Walking about like your limbs were bloody well attached to one another’s. You’d think distance would dull the bond but not with you Starks. It only got worse when Lyanna dug up that crannogman from whatever bog she found him in.”

“I remember you were quite eager to be an honorary member of that pack. You were jealous Lyanna invited Howland along.”

“It was an amusing idea to me.” Ned knew Robert wasn’t close to his brothers, not even back then. Ned was much closer to his, despite distance and differences and where Ned (and Lyanna) went, Robert did too.

“The tourney’s coming up soon enough but you’ll be staying longer. I want you to be my Hand.” Ned knew he’d ask, Sansa said he would but it still struck him silent.

“Robert, I…” He trailed off thinking of how best to approach this.

“You honor me but I can’t accept. My place is in the North.”

“Honor you, do I? And yet you refuse.”

“There is too much work to be done in the North. With the Freefolk and the threat we know of beyond the Wall, I can’t simply abandon my people.”

“Fairytales and magic? That’s what you refuse me for?”

“Even so, whether the threat is as they say it is or not, there is a threat. I’m the Lord Paramount and protector of the North.”

“With three living trueborn sons. Your heir is two and twenty, older than you were when you became the Lord of Winterfell. He’s married with three children. Daughters, yes, but he doesn’t seem to mind that. Your eldest daughter will go to her own household. Your youngest is betrothed and as for your other son, Brandon, Ser Barristan tells me he is close with Stannis’ unfortunate child. Isn't that right, Selmy?"

"I have noticed they have formed a quick friendship between themselves and Prince Tommen." Ser Barristan offered diplomatically.

"I was debating whether to betroth Shireen to Tommen but that will never happen. The greyscale is off-putting at first but she’s a sweet girl, if stuck in her books. Your lad doesn’t seem to mind it. And as for your bastard, I’ve plans for him. He won’t be your worry soon enough.” Ned wanted to protest more but there was a look of dark determination in Robert’s eyes that Ned did not want to provoke. He could hear Catelyn in his ears, telling him to proceed with the utmost caution, telling him to pull back and leave so he can reassess a solution for another day.

“I will give this offer a great deal of thought.” Ned replied carefully. Robert seemed satisfied with that answer.

“Good.” Ned turned to leave but Robert stopped him up short.

“And Ned? When you stay, Lady Arya stays too.” Ned felt a flare of protective anger rise up but he pushed it down once more. He must be careful. Starks don’t do well in the South, he needed to remember that, play it as a mantra in his head so he could make the smartest decision possible to get his children out of this place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions and Comments are welcome.


	10. Myrcella I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella muses about the changes in her household and a surprise visitor arrives in King's Landing.

[Elia](http://www.newhdwallpaper.in/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/Alia-Bhatt-super-gorgeous-new-images.jpg)

* * *

Myrcella was not nearly as foolish or absentminded as people seemed to think she was. She knew something was wrong, she just couldn’t guess what it was.

Ever since Gendry abruptly left the dinner table weeks ago and came back looking shaken saying Mother was attacked and Uncle Jaime killed, things hadn’t been the same. Myrcella would’ve put the changes down to simple grief but the state of her home pushed that notion away from her mind. She had not been allowed to be alone with her mother since then, not even to visit. Gendry said it was because Mother was healing and grieving and did not need them hounding her but when they were together, Gendry would attach himself to their mother in a way he hadn’t since he was a boy. She would see her mother and living uncle whispering to one another at feasts and looking generally civilized, something they never were. Father, who used to ignore Mother entirely unless she nagged him enough, now actively glared at her and looked like he wanted nothing more than to crush her. He would give Myrcella, Tommen and Joffrey those looks sometimes as well.

Her father had always been distant, not knowing how to speak to them. However, he never was that hostile to Myrcella in her memory. When she managed alone time with her father, she remembered a melancholy man who drank too much, swore a lot and dallied with many women, including those in Myrcella's service. But he was also a man who would kiss Myrcella's forehead and cheeks sometimes. He would buy her new trinkets and dolls and dresses without prompting. He would praise her for her tapestries and needlework, having her creations proudly displayed on the walls and wearing whatever she made him, even the more embarrassing pieces (there was a blindingly bright yellow tunic with what barely resembled a stag stitched on what was meant to be the front pocket from her earlier years still tucked away in his closet).

Her father was a man who knew she was lonely, a lone golden doe surrounded by stags, lions and lionesses. Myrcella sometimes feared being lost in this castle among groups she never seemed to quite fit into, or groups she fit into but did not want to. Sometimes she was as sick of being surrounded by her mother's relatives as her father always seemed to be. But her father kept Ora and Argella and told Myrcella about them so she could have sisters to spend time with. And because they were busy doing their duties oft times, he brought Amarei and Marissa to the castle and gave them to her even though Mother was incensed about it.

Her father was a man who didn't often listen to anyone, let alone his children, but when he did take the time to hear her Myrcella knew he actually _heard_ her. He didn't just let the words flow in one ear and out the other and then make decisions on her behalf without her say so like her mother did. Her father listened and usually granted her requests. When her father was a father, he spoiled her as his little princess.

Now he had no time for her. When she went to his solar to see him, he barked at her to leave, and frightened by this change in him, she would. He glared at her now with hatred in his eyes, like he didn't love her anymore. She didn't have much of her father's heart, there wasn't much left to give, but what little there was Myrcella had most of it. More than her mother or her brothers or her uncles, she had him or he had her, whichever it was. Now he was shutting her out and she couldn't guess why.

"Maybe it is because I look more and more like Mother every day." Myrcella postulated in her bedroom one day, laying on her mattress and staring up at the ceiling forlornly.

"You didn't magically begin looking like her, you always have." Elia replied from her place beside her.

“Yes, but even so it gets worse with age. Maybe if I had the Baratheon look like Gendry he wouldn’t be as angry with me.”

“He isn’t particularly fond of Gendry either if you haven’t noticed, not that he ever was from my understanding.” Elia replied. Myrcella sighed in response.

“Then what could it be? I’ve thought about it as much as I could and nothing stands out to me.”

“Does the king ever need an excuse to be cranky?”

“He may be… rough around the edges at times but he’s never been so with me. Something is different. He is distant with me and Mother and Gendry have been closer lately too. I think they know but they’d never tell me. They think I’m a silly girl with a head full of songs.”

“I mean, they’re not completely wrong.” Elia retorted playfully. Myrcella shot her an unamused look and Elia quickly sobered.

“Look Myrcie, maybe they’re not telling you whatever the matter is for a good reason. Maybe they’re trying to protect you.”

“From what? Some assassin long since dead?”

“Did you ever hear who sent that assassin after your mother and uncle?” Elia asked.

“No. Joffrey thinks it’s the Targaryen princess across the sea making a play for the throne. He thinks she wants to try to have Mother killed so she could push for a betrothal between herself and Father.” Myrcella said, her voice holding doubt but she held her tongue, deciding not to waste her breath on Joff. Elia had no such qualms.

“Joffrey is an idiot. Daenerys Targaryen has been content across the sea with her Dothraki husband and children for years. Why would she try to kill Cersei? To produce an heir with her blood? The child would be a Baratheon in name and would be behind Gendry, Joffrey and Tommen for the throne. Gendry dying would be a tragedy, both he and Joff a hell of a coincidence and all three an obvious conspiracy.”

“Joff isn’t exactly well-versed in matters of intrigue.” Myrcella replied. She wasn’t either. She certainly wasn’t her mother or Uncle Tyrion, but she had enough sense to know Joffrey’s idea was more than far-fetched.

“I don’t think Joffrey or Tommen know anymore than I do. Father has been distracted with Lord Stark here but there is still something afoot. You and Gendry have been close in the past.”

“That’s certainly one way to put it.” Elia mumbled.

“Has he mentioned anything to you?” Myrcella asked, ignoring Elia’s words.

“Not to me, no. I’m sure it’s nothing you need worry over, Myrcie.”

“Would you ask him for me?” Myrcella pressed.

“What makes you think he’d even tell me?”

“Like I said, you two have been close in the past.” Myrcella repeated, her cheeks warming up. Elia shot her a lascivious smile.

“You want me to seduce your brother for information? I thought you didn’t want me in any of your brothers’ beds.”

“I said I didn’t want to know any details if you ever did find yourself in their beds. And I don’t want you to seduce him, I just want you to ask him as his friend. Maybe he will tell you.”

“Gendry and I haven’t been that kind of friend in a long while. I almost miss it really. If there was a prince to fall into bed with that I wasn’t related to, it’d be him. He had much more experience than Tommen at any rate.”

“Elia! I don’t want to hear—”

“Yes, yes I know.”

“Wait, when did you and Tommen… he’s a child.”

“He’s only one year younger than you and I didn’t get him a present for his fourteenth nameday so that was it. Don’t worry, I didn’t dishonor him. I only showed him some things and sent him off into the world of women, so he could get some time away from Joffrey’s torment and his cats. He’ll end up marrying a cat if he doesn’t start paying attention to girls soon. Then again, I don’t think Tommen even realizes Ser Pounce is a girl. He probably just thinks the poor thing’s gender is cat.” Myrcella shook her head in response.

“I suppose as long as you’ve never lost it enough to entertain Joffrey…”

“I’m not that insane.” Elia replied with a snort. Myrcella did not linger on it long, or at least she didn’t want to. Gendry and Joffrey had been warming women’s beds for long enough, though she heard rumors that Joffrey didn’t commission whores for sex and that often they left bruised and battered. But Tommen was so innocent. Despite only a year and a half difference in age, Myrcella still sometimes saw him as a child to protect. He was growing into a man now. He’d have to start looking into marriage prospects soon. Myrcella herself would need to start thinking of her duties as a wife. She had never been as bold or reckless to engage in any activities with any man like Elia. She hadn’t even kissed a boy. It terrified her to think of but also excited her. She couldn’t wait to meet Trystane in person, the boy she’d been exchanging letters with for years. She couldn’t wait to leave with him. But, if she left she’d be leaving Tommen. And with her family as precarious as it was now…

“Myrcie.” Elia said, drawing the blonde’s attentions away from her swirling thoughts. The brown skinned girl gave Myrcella a tight-lipped smile.

“Myrcella, you are my friend, perhaps my only true friend in this world, and my cousin’s betrothed besides. You are one of the few people here who has never cared that I'm a bastard or that my father is the Red Viper of Dorne. You have been one of the only people I've ever met who doesn't find me wanting for not being as much a warrior or as beautiful as my older sisters, who hasn't believed I should be more or less of any one thing. Whatever is going on here, be it serious or minor, do you think I would sit by idly if something was threatening your life? No. For whatever dark history exists between our families, you are not your grandfather nor am I my aunt no matter what everyone says about our resemblance. I will not let anything happen to you.” Elia assured her. The princess took in Elia’s words, said to reassure her and admitting to no great knowledge of the castle’s goings-on but there was something in the way she said the words that made Myrcella think her friend knew more than she was saying. She wanted to press more but there was something dark and strange in her friend’s eyes that made her nod wordlessly and accept the kiss Elia pressed to her forehead. As she pulled away, playfulness and mischief overtook her face.

“Besides, I have been much too busy with our guests to chase after Gendry.” Myrcella felt a teasing smile come easily to her lips.

“All our guests or just Jon Snow?” Elia smiled wider at Myrcella’s question.

“I will admit, he is quite easy to look at. A tough nut to crack though. He’s so bloody proper, he won’t lay with me or even kiss me. Even flirting makes him blush like a swooning maiden.”

“You mean you’ve been pursuing a man for days now and haven’t laid with him? And you’re still bothering with him?” Elia shrugged in reply.

“I know, right? Can you imagine? I spent most of the night in his room last night and all we did was talk. I only left when his sisters came. The youngest one slept in his room I think. He may be a prude but he’s quite the conversationalist, even though he makes himself appear dull and brooding and short on words. Well, actually he’s not exactly loquacious but he listens and when he does speak, I find myself interested in what he has to say.” Elia replied. Myrcella pushed herself up on her elbows to look down at Elia properly.

“You almost sound like you like him, like you’d be interested in him for more than just sex.” Myrcella pointed out. Elia rolled her eyes in reply.

“Oh please, fat chance of that.” Myrcella gave her a look.

“When will you ever settle down, Elia? Surely you’ve gotten whatever fever has overtaken you out of your system.”

“Don’t you know? Us sand-mad heathens never outgrow being whores, especially us bastards.” Elia replied, her voice barely concealing her bitterness. It sounded like something Myrcella’s mother would say, or any of the women at court who sneered at Elia for being a bastard and being Dornish and for her well-known promiscuity.

“Elia…”

“Ignore me. I should ignore the whispers more often.” Myrcella gave her a sympathetic look.

“You know, despite my teasing, I haven’t seen you around with anyone much lately, even before the Starks arrived at King’s Landing.” Elia shrugged quietly in reply.

“Are you ready to settle down in a relationship now?” Myrcella asked, somewhat incredulously. She didn’t think Elia would to be honest. It never bothered Myrcella but she wanted her friend to be happy and, though she might deny it, Elia did have interest in stability and yet she tried to avoid it for reasons Myrcella still hadn't figured out.

“Relationships are boring but… but not settling for any one person can grow boring after a while too. As it stands at the moment, I’m not bored with Jon Snow. And... and he understands me in ways not many people have before. Maybe it is that we are both bastards. Of course there are differences due to our cultures but... well, I can’t say for the future but for now I shall take it a step at a time, try something new.” Elia never liked new but Myrcella figured that was the closest she would get to admitting she might want to settle down. Myrcella wouldn’t judge Elia if she stayed just the way she had been. No matter what, she was her friend. Myrcella would support her in whatever she chose to do just like she did for her.

“Well, either way I am here for you.” Myrcella replied. Elia smiled at her once more, gratitude clear in her smile. Elia’s eyebrows scrunched together and she looked like she was going to say something more when the door burst open unceremoniously. Myrcella jumped and looked up alarmed to see it was just Rosamund, Marissa and Amarei rushing into the room, wide smiles on their faces.

“Myrcella, you must come quickly.” Rosa said, barely restrained excitement in her voice.

“Is something the matter?” She asked alarmed.

“No. In the courtyard, it’s--"

"The Martells have arrived.” Amarei burst out, bouncing on her toes with pent up energy whilst her twin sister did the same. Rosamund looked annoyed at the interruption but nodded along, confirming that that was the truth. Myrcella’s eyes widened and she glanced at Elia who had an unreadable expression on her face.

"Who?" Elia asked simply.

“Prince Oberyn is here with some of his daughters, Princess Arianne and Prince Trystane.” Rosa replied.

“With…” Myrcella trailed off but Rosamund knew what she meant and nodded her head.

“He’s _here_.” Myrcella felt her heart thudding in her chest hard. She wasn’t expecting this, not at all. He hadn’t said he was coming for the tourney in their last letter. She quickly got up and bolted over to her mirror. Her hair was slightly flat on one side from laying on it in the bed. She was wearing a red dress with gold patterns on it. Oh, this would never do. She was his golden doe, not a lioness. She couldn’t be wearing this.

“I need to change, quickly.” She said, practically sprinting to her closet and throwing around dresses until she found the perfect one.

It was two dresses in truth made into one. There was a black halter underdress and a gold lace overdress, Baratheon gold not Lannister, made in a Dornish-style with small orange flowers embroidered into the neckline of both dresses, marigolds Elia identified them as. The gold dress hung lower on her than most in court would consider proper, the top showing much of her chest but not much of her modest breasts. The dress had been a nameday gift from Trystane. Myrcella always told him she would wear it the first time they met. She hastily got the dress on with the girls’ help, her stomach tying itself in knots as she thought of him. Her prince was so close, only downstairs in the courtyard feet away from her.

She drank the watered wine that Elia gave her before leaving the room, breathing deeply to calm herself. She remained nervous, her heart beating out a harsh drum beat until she arrived at the courtyard and looked out at all the people there. The Martells’ retinue was rather large, people of differing olive and brown tones filling the courtyard. Her father was not there nor was her mother but Gendry was and he was greeting the guests with graciousness but also with surprise. Myrcella’s eyes roved over them all, only interested in one. Her eyes caught sight of him because he was staring at her, his black eyes taking her in with such an intensity that she momentarily felt shivers up her spine despite the heat.

He was handsome, as handsome as she dared to dream he was. He had toasty olive skin and dark eyes, curly dark hair and when he noticed her staring he smiled widely at her, revealing perfectly aligned teeth. Myrcella beamed back at him and didn’t hesitate to go down the steps to get closer to him. Propriety dictated that she should greet the others first. She should welcome Prince Oberyn and Princess Arianne especially. She should wait until she was introduced to Trystane and greet him demurely as any good princess would do, especially with more and more courtiers appearing so they could “discreetly” observe the Martell contingent’s surprise appearance. Myrcella cared not for propriety in that moment. As soon as she was close to Trystane, she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace. It was almost surreal to finally get to touch him, to hold him. To have her arms around him. He hugged her back, his hands at her waist. She should be embarrassed but she wasn’t.

“You’re taller than I imagined and stronger.” He whispered teasingly into her ear. His breath was hot on her skin and his accent a tantalizing draw that made her feel flush all of a sudden. She pulled back to look up at him. He was only a few inches taller than her, but he was even more handsome up close. She stiffened a little as he placed a flower, a marigold, behind her ear.

“A token. One I have long wanted to bestow upon you.” She smiled wider at him, a blush coloring her cheeks. She only turned away from him when she felt eyes burning into her back. She turned to see her mother standing on the steps beside her father. A look of matching disdain was upon both of their faces, though most likely for different reasons. Cersei was staring at Myrcella in clear disapproval. No, not Myrcella, her dress. Her dress which was in Baratheon colors but in a Dornish-style. Myrcella hadn’t realized what she had done until just now. She took off her dress, her dress in Lannister colors, and put this one on. Cersei sneered at the dress with a curiously sad glint in her eyes before firmly looking away and Myrcella felt a lance of coldness go through her. Something was wrong, and this action, this small absentminded action of hers had just tipped something over the edge for her mother. She didn’t know if it would be a good thing or a bad thing, but knowing her mother she would bet on the latter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question and Comments are welcome.


	11. Tyrion I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion is in between a few rocks and multiple hard places but is determined to save his niece and nephews, the ones he likes anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that Tyrion/Margaery relationship tag that's been sitting there neglected except for some mentions in the Cersei chapter? Well, it's here now. It's going to be important for the story progression and there will be a Margaery chapter at some point. We'll check back in with Gendarya next chapter.

Tyrion was no fool. He had learned to read people from a young age. It helped when he had so much experience. He had learned to watch people growing up in Casterly Rock. He had to know which people he could trust (which was no one), which people were spies for his father (which were many), which ones were spies for others (which was few but Tyrion knew who they all were and never said a word to anyone). With that experience, it served him well in his life travelling the Seven Kingdoms. Mostly, he used it for party tricks, things to impress fast friends and ways to make conversation with various whores but when he went to court it became a matter of survival (and fun).

Jaime and Cersei had been his first subjects. They were hopelessly easy to figure out but maybe that was from continued exposure. Cersei could never hide her disdain and viciousness no matter how she tried. Jaime couldn't hide his pride or darker side. There were things about them that Tyrion just knew without ever having to pry. He knew that when Melara Hetherspoon, Cersei's childhood friend, went missing and subsequently was found drowned in a well that Cersei had something to do with it. He knew that when Kenmar Plumm broke his arm after he played a cruel prank on Tyrion that left him crying for hours as a child that Jaime had been the one to do it. He knew that when Jaime and Cersei were locked up in either's room together and giggles were coming from within, that he best make himself scarce and not enter. He knew the second Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen were born who they belonged to. He never said a word about it. What was he to say? No one knew and who would believe a twisted imp over the golden queen, one of the most beautiful women in all the realm? No one. Besides which, Tyrion wouldn't betray his brother. He had been one of the only members of his family to ever show him any kindness.

But now Jaime was dead, killed by an "assassin".

King Robert let Tyrion see the body, the true body of his brother. He had puked upon viewing it. His head was crushed in on one side, what remained of his face covered in blood and brain matter. Cersei looked little better, as battered as she was after Robert got his hands on her. Tyrion was let out of the cells, allowed to roam somewhat free around the city. He wouldn't leave. If he left Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella would die. He loved those children, well the last two anyway, and he wouldn't forgive himself if his actions led to their deaths. Gendry was more up in the air. Robert didn't seem inclined to kill him currently but that could change if he was perceived as too involved in any scheming. Thus Tyrion found himself doing what he previously thought impossible: he was actually working with Cersei, actually having moments where they spoke and were not focused on trying to one-up or kill one another.

Tyrion wasn't delusional. It was only because she needed him that she paid any attention to him at all. Truthfully, Tyrion needed her too. He was just as likely to die as she was even if Robert didn't know he knew. He wanted to die old and in bed with a girl's mouth on his cock, not have his head caved in by the Demon of the Trident. That demon seemed reborn thanks to his siblings if Jaime's corpse was any indication.

A part of Tyrion wished he could send a raven to his father and ask for help but his pride rebelled against that. He had never begged his father for help before, he wouldn't start now. He was clever on his own. Cersei was too, though not as much as she thought. Still, they had a working plan for all her children's safety and Cersei and Tyrion's too. Brad, Tyrek and Lancel were likely to get lost in the shuffle unfortunately. Tyrion felt remorse for them but maybe when he and Cersei were gone Robert could be convinced to not insult his father or Uncle Kevan by killing more Lannisters. The only reservation Tyrion had was to do with the Starks. Tyrion didn't know Lord Stark well. Jaime had never liked him but he admitted that Ned Stark was an honorable man, sometimes to a fault. His children were well-raised and groomed, including the supposed bastard. He didn't seem like he had any inkling of who he was and if he did, he didn't seem like to raise an army against any Baratheon. He was close to the Stark children and his uncle and besides that, he was quiet and contemplative. He stuck to the company of other bastards around the keep rather than the royal children as well as avoiding those of court, not whispering descent or sowing seeds of a rebellion or uprising of Targaryen loyalists. Jon Snow was no threat but that hardly meant anything to Cersei and it couldn't mean anything to Tyrion, not now. Not in the face of what he stood to lose: his family.

 _Curse me and my weakness for cripples, bastards and broken things. There is no time for such sentiment._ He thought to himself, drinking a goblet of wine in his chambers and looking out the window at the yards below. The bastard was in the training yard sparring with Barristan Selmy, Brandon Stark and Tommen. He moved fluidly. He had skill with a blade, that much was true. Perhaps he wouldn't go down without a fight. They could use a fight when things came to a head, as a distraction.

Tyrion only realized how much he himself was distracted when a delicate hand came down on his shoulder, causing him to jump slightly. He turned as a melodic laugh filled his chambers to see Margaery grinning down at him with amusement.

"Did I frighten you so terribly? Imagine it, a lion fell by a delicate rose." She said with amusement.

"You might as well be a lion yourself for how quietly you stalked up on me. One would think you mistook me for prey, my lady." Tyrion replied, taking a sip of Dornish red.

"I called you more than once and you didn't answer, so my approach wasn't as silent as all that. As for taking you for prey, mayhaps I am of a mood to devour you." Margaery replied, her tone swiftly turning husky as she kneeled down and pressed a kiss to his lips.

Tyrion did not usually do this. He usually reserved himself to whores, not highborn ladies much less married highborn ladies. Too much stress, he had decided, and everything with Tysha... well it was best not to think of that.

Margaery was different though. She didn't care about his stature, she didn't underestimate him, she didn't patronize him. She offered witty discourse and pleasant conversation. She challenged him. She understood him. She also had her own agenda for carrying on a relationship with him, Tyrion was sure. Her grandmother wanted her for Gendry but he never took interest in her and Joffrey had always been vicious, so she married Renly Baratheon. It was a long running rumor concerning the nature of her brother and her husband's true relationship but Margaery never spoke about that with him. Margaery spent most of her days at court, even when Renly left every now and again to check in for things at Storm's End. Margaery did her best to split her time between Tyrion and Renly and they were careful enough in their activities that they made sure Margaery’s first child, her son Leland, was definitely Renly’s and he had the Baratheon looks to prove it. Tyrion didn’t mind the secrecy and sneaking around, it didn’t upset him. He never thought to be any woman's secret lover, especially a beautiful highborn woman, but it amused him nonetheless. No one knew about them (save Varys or Littlefinger because what didn't they know) and he wouldn't tell but even if he did, who would believe that someone as beautiful as Margaery Tyrell would take a twisted imp like him for a lover?

Margaery pulled away from the kiss and stared at Tyrion's face searchingly.

"Something's wrong." She said simply, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. Tyrion could deny it, but Margaery read people much too well for all that and she read him concerningly well.

"Most things, I think you'll find, are wrong in some way, shape or form." Margaery rolled her eyes at his words.

"Must you always be so dour?"

"Not much reason to be optimistic lately." He replied flatly, drinking more wine. Margaery visibly sobered at his words.

"I know you and Jaime were close. I can't imagine how you feel. I would not be the same if I were to lose Willas, Garlan or Loras."

"No, things are not the same." Tyrion said quietly.

"How have you been holding up?" Margaery asked, genuine concern in her voice.

"I have been drinking more than is healthy and spending more time with my family than I've ever cared to." He answered truthfully.

"And Queen Cersei? How has she been? It's awful that she was attacked that way." Now the concern in Margaery's voice sounded fake. She and Cersei never got along.

"Cersei is Cersei." Tyrion replied simply, walking over to his bed and stepping up on the stool so he could sit on the mattress.

"I haven't seen her around court much lately." Margaery pointed out.

"She has confined herself largely to her chambers. She is grieving and wants to be alone." Tyrion settled on.

"Well, hopefully she makes a full recovery soon." Margaery said airily. Tyrion couldn't help the smirk that alighted his face.

"You should work on the sincerity of that statement. One might think you were the one to make an attempt on the queen's life, for all the disdain you clearly hold for her." Margaery shot him a smile edged with viciousness (though not as much as Cersei or Joffrey).

"I don't know, mayhaps it wouldn't have been the worst thing for her to go gently into the night. King Robert certainly seems to agree. He made a pass at me at the last feast. Drunk out of his mind he was, my goodbrother, said in the right light I resembled his Lyanna. Lord Eddard did not appear to agree."

"Should I be worried?"

"About?"

"Is Lady Olenna like to send assassins for my sister and nephews? Should I expect Lord Renly to take ill suddenly and for you to surreptitiously become queen?" Tyrion questioned. He didn't think Olenna would pull something like that, not now, but it was best to keep Margaery talking in circles about something other than the truth so she would not stumble upon it. She was a sharp one, his rose, too smart for his own good at the moment. Margaery approached him with a heated look on her face.

"I told you those plans of my grandmother's are for naught now." Margaery assured him, straddling him on the bed.

"Grandmother has accepted that King Robert will not put Cersei aside. Prince Gendry and I were never going to happen and after things with Joffrey took a violent turn she put such machinations aside. My marriage to Renly is a mutually beneficial one. Leland will be Lord of Storm's End when he is of age, that will have to be enough for Grandmother. As for our child..." Margaery trailed off, pulling Tyrion's stubby fingers to her stomach. Another thing Tyrion had to worry about.

"I think it will be a boy. I hope so. Blonde hair maybe, my eyes." Tyrion felt a part of his stomach lurch. Baratheon genes were strong, he knew that now. If the child in Margaery's stomach truly was his, it would not look like Renly's at all. Gods forbid the child looked all Lannister. If Robert had any say in the matter, would he be as inclined to crush Margaery for cuckolding her husband as he was to crush his own wife? Renly may not care but Lannisters were already on thin ice with Baratheons, this would make it all the worse.

"What is it?” Margaery asked, her face falling as Tyrion's mood took a sudden dip.

"Tell me what the matter is, Tyrion Lannister. Something is wrong."

"I... It's complicated."

"Fortunately, I'm well-versed at complicated." Tyrion shook his head, unsure what to say. He was quite literally saved when a horn blared outside suddenly. A welcoming horn. He and Margaery shared confused looks before they made their way to the window. A retinue was filling the courtyard. Tyrion instantly recognized the sun and spear sigil on an approaching, open carriage.

"Martells? What are they doing here?" Margaery asked, confusion and derision in her voice. Martells and Tyrells never got along, especially after the last Tyrell in Dorne was poisoned and Prince Oberyn crippled Lord Willas. Surprisingly, Tyrion heard the two men were friends despite their families' cool dispositions towards the other. Besides that, Tyrion felt relief. He had taken a long shot that Prince Doran would understand the coded message he sent and even more of a risk that he would care enough to send his people to King's Landing for a girl betrothed to his son that none of them had ever met. But here the Dornish party was.

"The tourney mayhaps. I must go greet them." He said simply to Margaery, walking from the room but he could feel her eyes on his back with every step he took.

The courtyard was full when Tyrion entered it, the Dornish party numbering 60 men. He spotted Myrcella in the arms of who must be Prince Trystane at the bottom. Cersei stood next to Robert at the top of the stairs, both of them holding looks of disapproval. Arianne Martell was staring back at them with clear disdain and barely concealed hatred.

"No one told me you were coming." Robert said gruffly, glaring at Prince Oberyn. The man smirked in reply.

"That's because no one knew we were." Robert glared harder at the prince but that just made him smirk wider.

"We heard you were holding a tourney. I wanted to bring my girls so they could knock these pretty Northern boys into the dirt. And of course, so my nephew might meet his princess." Oberyn said.

"We welcome you to the capital." Cersei said, trying and failing to inject courtesy into her voice. She never liked the match for Myrcella, a joint venture of Jon Arryn and Tyrion's, but it would be what saved her now. Tyrion shot Cersei a look that clearly meant for her to play nice.

If they played their cards right, Prince Oberyn just might forget how much he hated them and save Myrcella from Robert's wrath.

**~*~*~**

Finding time to talk to Prince Oberyn alone proved to be a hardship. The man hated Lannisters, every single one, and for good reason. The only person whose hatred might rival his was Robert but seeing as how Prince Oberyn laid just as much blame for his sister's death at his feet, there was little chance of an alliance there. Thankfully.

Whenever Tyrion sought the prince out, he seemed too busy with his niece or nephew or his daughters or his paramour. Whether Prince Doran passed any message or instructions along to him, Tyrion didn't know because Oberyn was never available. It was one of Tyrion's favorites places that he had finally managed to pin the man down.

"Tyrion, it's been some time since I last saw you here. The girls miss you." Alayaya said upon seeing him enter.

“And I miss them. Sadly I’m an involved man at the moment. Is your mother not here?”

“No. She has given me the reins tonight. My first night on my own. It is going well so far but wish me luck.” Tyrion shot the girl a smile. Alayaya was a whore, true enough, but a sweeter, braver more innocent girl he had seldom met. She looked nothing like Tysha but at times she reminded him of her. If he was in the business of repeating past mistakes and he hadn’t been fool enough to be seduced by his rose, he would have taken Alayaya for a lover if she agreed. As it was, she had been his favored companion when he came to Chataya’s. He had visited her too often and his father found out and decided to dispel any notions of a relationship beyond the brothel from Tyrion’s mind. Alayaya had been assailed by unknown attackers some months ago and whipped. Tyrion knew his father had a hand in it, but he didn’t waste time accusing him. She had stripes along her back now and Tyrion felt guilty every time he saw it. Chataya had decided to have her daughter learn to run the brothel after that.

“Have you come back to us, little lion?” Alayaya asked, an inviting smile on her lips. If he were a weaker man, he’d give in. Margaery probably wouldn’t even mind, hell she might join him but he wasn’t here for that.

“I’m not here to relieve stress, I’m here to meet someone. Prince Oberyn.” Alayaya smiled wider.

“Ah, the Prince from Dorne. He has been here since sun-up with his woman. The girls and boys have all fallen in love with him. I think they will all have broken hearts by the time he leaves. He is the opposite of the Northmen, so full of life and love. A good lover that one. Not your type, I thought.”

“I’m not here to see him for those purposes, I assure you. It’s purely business."

"He is in the pink room. He has company though.” Tyrion nodded and waddled his way towards the pink room where Prince Oberyn apparently was. Moans and groans and the sounds of sex filled the air as he walked along. He ignored the sounds and the desire roiling in him. His worries had kept him from finding the will to lay with anyone. His body was not used to such restraint. He arrived to the pink room quickly, knowing the correct path by heart. The sounds of sex didn’t stream through the door so he knocked on the wood.

"Prince Oberyn, it's Tyrion Lannister." He heard some mumbling on the other side of the door, arguments perhaps, before a feminine voice bid him entry. He pushed in and saw Prince Oberyn sitting up in the bed resting against the headboard with a whore and rentboy on either side of him. His paramour, Ellaria Sand, was splayed out by his feet leisurely kissing the neck of a redheaded whore.

"I'm sure you have a very good reason for interrupting our conversation, Lannister." Prince Oberyn spat his family name at him the way others spat the word imp. In truth, none of the Dornish looked at him twice for being a dwarf. It was his name they detested. He was a Lannister, of the stock that saw to the death of Elia Martell and her children. It was strange to be hated for the thing most saw as his only redeeming aspect.

"Well, you didn't seem as busy as you have in the past, so I thought to press my luck."

"Feel free to join us. I've heard you're well endowed, my lord. Heather here tastes of cherries." Ellaria said, nodded to the girl beneath her. The bastard woman had her fingers in the waistband of the redhead, her digits making the girl writhe and moan softly.

"As sorely tempted as I am by the offer, my lady, sadly I'm here for more serious matters."

"I don't know about all that. Perhaps I am not inclined to leave this bed for the benefit of a Lannister, or a Baratheon for that matter." Prince Oberyn said, his hand resting on the hip of the rentboy beside him. Tyrion stared at the man known as the Red Viper. His eyes were glinting dangerously.

"I assure you, Prince Oberyn, you'd be doing my father a favor if you unleashed your wrath towards the Lannisters on me. He's hated me since the day I was born and killed my mother on my way out of her."

"You are your father's only heir now, no?" Ellaria asked, not sounding like she condemned Tyrion for anything one way or another. Tyrion couldn't stop the scoff that left him.

"My father would sooner place my brother's ashes as the lord of Casterly Rock before me."

"Why is this?"

"Because the great Tywin Lannister is a cunt of the highest order. You, Tyrion Lannister, are not the one I want dead. You are safe from me, for today. Who can say for the future?" Prince Oberyn said, accepting the grapes the whore beside him fed him.

"The future? We shall be family in the future, tied together by my niece and your nephew."

"Myrcella and Trystane got along together famously, didn't they? They might as well have never been apart." Ellaria commented.

"Yes, I've never seen my niece so happy. I would hardly like anything to dull the happiness of the prince or the princess."

"No, we would not want that, would we?" Prince Oberyn repeated, his eyes taking on that dangerous glint again. Ellaria placed a calming hand on her lover's calve and after a moment another easy smile came to the prince's face.

"She's a sweet girl, the princess. Strange that she should look so much like her mother and not at all like her father."

"Stranger things have happened. But for all her looks, she is nothing like Cersei or her father for that matter." Tyrion said simply.

"I noticed it. Myrcella welcomed myself, Obi and Arianne with open arms once she tore herself from Trystane. My Elia has spoken highly and fondly of her. The queen, not so much." Ellaria commented.

"She seemed very concerned about Myrcella's safety, the queen. I've heard her reluctance in allowing her daughter to come to Dorne has been for that reason. Mayhaps someone should tell her that, unlike in other lands, we don't hurt little girls in Dorne. Just like we find the murder of innocent women and children distasteful." Tyrion stared at Prince Oberyn again, not sure if he swayed the man one way or the other. The prince seemed to know that and he smiled a little wider.

"Princess Myrcella should be very excited to know that my brother insists upon her returning with myself and Trystane to Dorne at the end of this tourney." The prince said simply. Tyrion nodded after a moment. The conflict between their families was not erased and would not be but for blood-shed, but at least Myrcella was a grey spot that would not be used in Prince Oberyn's vendetta. Ellaria Sand smiled at Tyrion then, pulling herself up languidly from the bed.

"I hear Lannisters pay their debts."

"For the most part."

"It seems your family owes a debt to my Oberyn. This shan't wipe it out but whatever small debt you may owe I'm sure can be paid for in favors." Ellaria said, seductively kneeling before Tyrion. Tyrion shot a look back at Prince Oberyn. He had an indulgent smile on his face as he stared at his paramour. Tyrion felt the stirrings in his loins as she pulled him into a kiss. Her lips tasted of cherries.

"Maybe I have a few moments to spare." Tyrion allowed. Ellaria smiled at him and led him over to the bed.

 _Fuck it, I'm stressed and I deserve this. I need a break from these worries._ Tyrion told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions and comments welcome.


	12. Gendry IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry runs into Arya and the others and gets roped into an impromptu picnic.

While Gendry liked a drink every now and again, he generally detested getting drunk. After years of seeing what alcohol did to his father, he resolved never to become that way. This was why waking up with a pounding headache and a cotton tongue a couple days ago had left him flummoxed and annoyed with himself. It was the tension, he told himself. Waiting for an axe to drop on your head for over a month could leave anyone keyed up and in need of some kind of release. For his Uncle Tyrion, that was spending the time since the Martell party arrived at the brothel with Prince Oberyn and Ellaria Sand. For his mother, that meant drinking… a lot. Gendry had never been the type to ignore his worries. No, he dwelled on them.

Now he had more worries on top of his previous ones, granted they were more normal worries: he was embarrassed.

 _Maybe she didn’t notice_ , he reassured himself.

But how couldn’t she? Gendry was sure he wasn’t subtle staring at her lips as he was, asking her about her love life. What the hells was he thinking? He wasn't thinking was the short answer, he was too drunk to use his brain.

Gendry groaned as he got up out of his bed. He had not seen Arya since they went out to the pub, or rather he had seen her but with the Martells arriving out of nowhere he was focused on supporting Myrcella and securing her relationship with the Martells so at least she would have a safety net to fall back on. He looked out the window into the courtyard. Joffrey was in the training yards with his crew, seemingly kicking up trouble with Daemon Sand. Gendry had sparred with him before and knew he would kick Joff’s ass. Not that accomplishing that feat was any hardship.

Gendry turned away from the window and glanced at his empty table forlornly. The maid had brought him breakfast and Gendry hadn’t eaten it, so lost in his mind as he was and she'd taken it away already. He sighed and grabbed the water jug, drinking down a cup swiftly before walking out of his room. He needed to do something. Staying idle wasn’t helping him.

He found himself wandering the halls somewhat aimlessly. His duties had slowly started becoming less and less since the truth came out, the Small Council leeching away power from him little by little. He’d have to deal with that but after his family was safe. He imagined himself confronting Littlefinger on what Gendry knew wasn’t just minimal involvement in his mother’s downfall. It was awfully convenient that Lysa Arryn just happened to send the wrong letter to him of all people, whether they were friends or not. Baelish used to brag that he'd taken both Tully sisters' maidenheads. Gendry couldn't know the truth of his claim but he would bet that Baelish had more involvement in this than he knew.

There was Varys as well, a spymaster and a good one. Gendry would sooner throw himself from the Tower of the Hand before saying that Varys didn't know all about Jon Snow and his mother and Uncle Jaime, he had just chosen not to say anything. Varys' motives always left him at some loss. If ever asked, he would claim he was in it for the people but who could know with the spider.

Gendry wanted to confront his uncles too about their lack of action when his father stood there beating his mother black and blue. Uncle Stannis was meant to be a man of duty and law but the fact that he would stand by while a woman was battered by her husband, no matter her actions, was something Gendry would address with him. On the other hand, Uncle Renly never took anything serious enough and he never liked his mother, but he also had a poorly concealed ambition that could drive him to do something stupid, especially with the Tyrells involved. Somehow they had wrapped their thorns into both sides of Gendry's gene pool through Margaery and Loras. It was all so complicated and dizzying to think of all the interconnections he knew about, and those he didn't, between their houses in this mess: Baratheon, Lannister, Stark, Targaryen, Arryn, Martell, Tyrell, all locked in some dance that would surely see some of those factions fall, never to rise again. He supposed he should just be thankful that Greyjoys were not thrown into the mix.

He was so lost in his fantasies that he didn’t notice the small party coming up behind him until two massive shapes padded past him on either side, causing him to jump and let out a short noise of terror.

“Wow Gendry, that noise was… something.” He heard Elia deadpan. He turned around and felt further embarrassment settle in him as he saw Myrcella, Prince Trystane, Elia, Jon Snow and Arya standing there with varying looks of amusement.

“Prince Gendry Baratheon, deadly with a hammer but scared of a puppy.” Elia continued teasing. Gendry scoffed in reply.

“Those are not puppies.” As if to emphasize her point, Elia held out a hand and Ghost padded back over to her, allowing her to scratch behind his ear. Gendry rolled his eyes at the action.

“Sorry if they scared you. They can be disturbingly quiet when they want to be.” Jon Snow said, though he didn’t sound as staunchly polite as he did before with amusement dancing in his grey eyes. Gendry shot him and the smiling group another glare but they didn’t seem intimidated one way or the other. He rolled his eyes and turned to leave, resolutely ignoring Arya, but Myrcella stopped him.

“Wait Gen. We’re all going for a ride out to the Blackwater Rush. We’re having a picnic. You can come.” Gendry was going to decline his sister but his stomach growled loudly, causing him to hang his head in embarrassment as the group shot him looks of amusement once more. This day was not going in his favor.

“I think that settles it then.” Prince Trystane commented, walking ahead with Myrcella on his arm. Jon, Elia and Ghost followed them easily with Arya hanging back. Gendry shook himself and walked beside her down the hallway, Nymeria slotting herself next to her. He glanced over at the short girl but Arya did not look in his direction and she looked visibly tense. That only made Gendry’s embarrassment grow and he felt remorse filling him.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted out, trying to stay quiet so the others wouldn’t hear him. If Arya heard him she didn’t indicate it.

“My behavior the other night was… I was drunk.” He continued lowly. Arya twitched a little in reply.

“A lot of that in your family.” She mumbled in reply. The way she said it, it seemed to hold a deeper meaning than the prince was sure he understood. He was suddenly acutely aware of the direwolf on Arya’s other side as Nymeria stared at him. The hostility in the predator’s eyes was as clear as day. Gendry looked away as yellow eyes pierced into him, saying nothing more lest he gain the ire of the beast or her master or both.

Horses were prepared quickly for them and before he knew it they were off. Gendry was as adept on a horse as he needed to be, but he wasn’t as much of a natural rider as he could’ve been. Myrcella was the least skilled among the group as their mother would often confine her and Tommen to carriages and wheelhouses when they travelled. Prince Trystane looked unfamiliar with the breed of horse he rode but he and Myrcella joked between each other about their ineptitudes. Gendry thought they were getting along great and was thankful for that small mercy. Jon Snow was obviously comfortable in the saddle, but Elia was better and more natural thanks to her jousting skills.

Arya though…

Gendry watched her ride ahead of the group, tearing through the city streets with ease. She was practically an extension of her horse, commanding it with a few twists of her hips and little else. Her short hair blew wildly around her face and her laughter carried on the wind. She resembled a centaur more than a girl or even a wolf despite Nymeria keeping pace beside her.

“Arya’s always loved horses, always had a natural talent. The lords and ladies of the North think she’s half a horse.” Jon Snow said. Gendry looked over at him and saw him giving him a knowing look. Gendry looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring. Arya had mentioned Jon Snow almost threw Larence Snow overboard a ship for his attentions towards his sister. Then again it was a little more than simply attentions, but Gendry did not want to think about what Arya had told him that night lest he embarrass himself even more.

“I wasn’t… I mean I didn’t…” Gendry stammered. Elia, overhearing their conversation, decided to chime in then.

“You mean you weren’t staring at Lady Arya like you’d like to—”

“Please don’t.”

“Stop.” Both Jon and Gendry protested, neither wishing to hear the end of the sentence. Elia laughed at them.

“I was simply going to say like you’d like to name her Queen of Love and Beauty right here and now. Where were your minds going, boys?” She teased. Jon Snow blushed and Gendry rolled his eyes.

“I’m not joining the joust anyway.” He realized a moment too late that he didn’t deny Elia’s claim and he should’ve because Elia could be like a dog with a bone sometimes. Her eyes flashed with mischief and determination and Gendry knew he made a mistake, but she didn’t comment on that.

“Even if you did, you’d never beat me.” Jon Snow’s eyes lit up with surprise and delight.

“So you _are_ joining the lists.”

“My sisters joined the melee and archery competitions and they would not suffer me to sit the tourney out nor would my parents. Besides, who else would crown you if I don’t?” Jon’s cheeks turned red once more and Elia flashed him a wide smile before riding forward.

“Hey Arya, race me?” Gendry watched the two short girls tear ahead of them on their horses, both obviously skilled horsewomen. Myrcella and Trystane were in a world of their own up ahead. Jon smiled softly, watching the girls all but disappear ahead of them. Gendry felt uneasy suddenly.

“You and Elia are close, are you?” He asked the bastard beside him. Jon Snow looked struck and like he was struggling for words before answering.

“She’s… nice. We get along. We have things in common, so…”

“Most people don’t spend time with Elia because she’s nice.” Gendry retorted.

“Most people don’t spend time with Arya because she’s good in the saddle.” Jon Snow shot back, giving Gendry another knowing look. Now it was Gendry’s turn to struggle for an answer.

“She’s… nice.” He decided on, throwing the answer back at the other man. Snow gave him an unimpressed look.

“Look, Arya’s special. She’s different than most ladies. I don’t want her hurt.”

“I’m not planning to hurt her.”

 _I’m just planning to hurt you._ But Gendry wasn’t planning anything, that was his parents. But he certainly knew about it. Wasn’t that as good as being guilty? Things were getting much more complicated here than Gendry had thought it would. Elia didn’t know anything as far as Gendry knew but he knew her, she didn’t stick around with lovers for long. If she was still spending time with Jon Snow then she must be truly interested in him. If she found out the truth and realized his life was in danger, what would she do? Myrcella’s life was in danger too though. Elia would choose her every time, Gendry had to believe that. But what would she think of him? She would never forgive Gendry if he forced such a choice on her.

Jon Snow said nothing about his sudden introspection and left him to his thoughts, riding beside him with Ghost at his other side.

Myrcella was the one who picked their spot once they reached the Blackwater Rush. The spot she chose was just beyond the Rush by one of the fast-flowing streams. The field there was green but cared for. The direwolves didn’t seem to have a problem with the speed of the river and dove in to hunt for fish while the group set up a blanket and laid out the food. Some of it was things the group had gotten from the kitchens, bread and cheese and a sealed flagon of summerwine but there were also selections that had been brought from Dorne and prepared by the cook Princess Arianne brought with them. There was dragon-pepper and lemon encrusted salmon, caramelized blood oranges and lemon-pomegranate cakes. Jon Snow and Arya were as unused to the food as Gendry but willing to eat it. Elia seemed particularly happy with it. Gendry figured she must’ve missed food like this having been in King’s Landing for so long. Myrcella was particularly fond of complimenting everything and she sounded sincere about it, so Gendry didn’t think she was just doing so for Prince Trystane’s benefit.

“If you enjoy all of this, wait until we go to Dorne. I shall have a feast thrown in your honor and you can try all the Dornish fare we could not bring with us.” Trystane promised.

“I would love that, Trys.” Myrcella replied, her voice sounding dreamy. Gendry held back an eye roll. He was happy his sister was happy but the way Myrcella and Trystane cooed over one another was just a bit sickening to watch. He turned to Elia for support but she was feeding Jon Snow a piece of cake as he gazed at her almost just as dreamily as Myrcella. He glanced over to Arya and saw she was just as disgusted with the display before her.

“The four of you are quite possibly the most grotesque thing I’ve ever seen and I’ve been to a Tyroshi marketplace.” She said, not content to view them silently like Gendry. Myrcella blushed while Trystane and Elia laughed.

“You’re only saying that because you’re on that side of things.” Snow replied.

“Well, obviously.”

“It could be worse.”

“How could it be worse?” Arya retorted.

“You could be stuck by yourself with Robb and Wynafryd.” Gendry figured that was a very bad thing by the way Arya shuddered and her face screwed up.

“You’re right, it could be worse.”

“How much worse are we talking? Myrcella and Prince Trystane are pretty bad. Even worse than listening to Tommen once he’s started on about Ser Barristan.” Gendry piped up playfully.

“Oh come on Gendry, Myrcie and Trys aren’t that bad.” Elia said. Myrcella smiled at her friend for her defense.

“No, they’re pretty bad. But not as bad as my brother and his wife. Picture these two but multiplied by three.” Arya explained. Now Elia shuddered.

“Okay, that is pretty bad. Remind me never to become like that.”

“I don’t know, you didn’t exactly look like a fierce warrior just now so much as a besotted girl.” Trystane teased. Elia shot her cousin a glare, but he seemed unconcerned by it.

“How about we see how much you believe that at the tourney? Why don’t you join me in the tiltyard, dear cousin?” Elia replied. Trystane chuckled at the hostility.

“I’ve not married him yet, Elia. I’d rather my betrothed not be felled by your lance ‘accidentally’.” Myrcella replied. Trystane gave her a slightly betrayed look but Myrcella shot him a wide smile and he easily forgave her.

“Will you be participating, Prince Gendry?” Trystane asked curiously.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh but you have to, Gen. Trystane’s not entering the tourney. Who else will I give my favor to?” Myrcella protested.

“Ser Arys is joining the melee, you can favor him.”

“It won’t be the same as favoring my brother.”

“You should join.” Arya said suddenly. It took Gendry a moment to realize she was talking to him directly as she hadn’t the entire ride over or as they ate and bantered among one another.

“You’re good with your hammer and as the crown prince it would do everyone good to see you among the contestants, especially since your brothers and father aren’t fighting.” Arya said. Her tone was devoid of emotion and she wasn’t looking at him but he took her words to heart.

“Are _you_ participating in the tourney?” Arya and Jon Snow shared a secretive smile between them.

“We don’t have tourneys in the North. When we fight men, we don’t like them to know what we can do.”

“But I’ve sparred with the both of you anyway and seen you both training, I know what you can do.” Gendry protested. The siblings shared another look between them.

“Not everything we can do.” Arya replied with a shrug. The answer intrigued Gendry but he didn’t press.

“None of my siblings or I will be participating in the melee or joust, not for lack of trying on Bran’s part. Domeric will be jousting and I’m joining the archery competition. Either way, our joining the tourney doesn’t matter. You should join the melee.” Arya continued.

“Father will love it if you do. Maybe it’ll cheer him up.” Myrcella said, her smile dipping with her last words. Gendry felt his heart clench at the reminder of his father. Of course Myrcella would notice the differences in their family’s dynamic. She and Father had been close, as close as was possible for Robert Baratheon to be with his children anyway, but she didn’t know the truth and Gendry had no plans to tell her.

“If you’re offering to give me your favor, then how can I say no?” Gendry replied to cheer his sister up.

 _Half-sister._ A vicious voice whispered in his mind. He ignored it. Myrcella smiled approvingly at his acquiescence.

“You’ll have to give me your favor for the joust naturally Jon, and I believe my mother will as well. But I shouldn’t outdo a prince, should I? Myrcella will give you her favor Gendry, mayhaps your mother as well. Shouldn’t you have another’s favor too? You can never have too much luck, can you?” Elia said, her voice sounding innocent as her eyes darted between him and Arya. Gendry gave her a look to drop the thread of the conversation but in that moment Myrcella paid enough attention to notice it and Gendry internally cursed as her eyes lit up with delight.

“Why, you are entirely correct Elia. You are the prince of the Seven Kingdoms after-all, heir to the Iron Throne. You’re to be king one day. You should have as much favor as you possibly can and having the favor of a fair maiden will surely grant you luck beyond measure.” Gendry rolled his eyes at their antics. Thankfully he was saved from having to answer as Nymeria trotted back over to them, sufficiently full from her fishing and soaking wet besides. The direwolf made her way near to the group before she started shaking, flicking water all over everyone.

“Nymeria!” Arya chastised. The direwolf gave the group an unapologetic look before flashing her fur once more and trotting off after a squirrel. Gendry tensed as Ghost approached them but he didn’t play the same trick his littermate did on them, contenting himself to silently stand near Jon Snow’s shoulder.

“Thank goodness we ate all the food first.” Myrcella said, flicking some water off her hand.

“Maybe we should take a walk to dry off.” Trystane suggested. Myrcella nodded eagerly and took his hand, allowing him to lead her away as they walked together along the Rush. Gendry watched them go a moment. Propriety would dictate they walk with an escort but Gendry thought it was better that they have the time alone. As he turned back to the group, he saw that Elia had that mischievous grin on again.

“Alas, Jon and I must go as well.” She announced, feigning regret.

“We must?” Snow asked dubiously, clearly unsure where they were meant to be going.

“Yes, we must." Elia insisted. Snow still looked at her for further explanation and Elia rolled her eyes in response.

"Ser Barristan is expecting you in the yards soon enough, remember?”

“Oh. I’d forgotten all about that.” Snow admitted.

“A good thing you have me around then, isn’t it? Let’s be off.” Elia said, standing eagerly. Snow was a little more reluctant.

“I don’t know if my father will be pleased if I leave Arya alone.”

“She isn’t alone, she’s with the prince. What could happen?” Snow still looked hesitant.

“Go Jon. I’ll be fine.” Arya piped up.

“Are you sure? Because if…” Snow trailed off and Gendry watched the two have some kind of silent conversation with just their eyes alone. He didn’t know what transpired between them in their silent exchange but eventually the bastard nodded and pressed a kiss to his sister’s forehead before joining Elia to walk back to where they’d left their horses.

Gendry watched them untie the horses and then ride away swiftly, Ghost following on their heels. He felt his stomach drop as he realized he was now alone with Arya. He couldn't think anything good was going to come of this situation. It hadn't proven to be a good thing for him mentally or emotionally so far. Gendry sighed to himself. He was a prince and yet he was afraid of being alone with a girl all of seven and ten, a girl who barely reached his shoulder. He steeled himself. He was not going to cower away from her. He would just face this uncomfortable exchange and be done with it.


	13. Arya IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry have an uncomfortable, and intense interaction.

It wasn’t that Arya had been avoiding Gendry at all, that wasn’t true or not the whole picture at least. After her encounter with King Robert, she was shaken. More shaken than she cared to admit she was. After being under the tutelage of Syrio Forel for years, after training and honing her abilities with spearwives and the Northern equivalent of knights and even Dothraki, after fighting and killing Wildlings and pirates and rogues she had stood petrified and powerless against a fat, drunken oaf. She couldn’t do a thing because he wore a hunk of metal on his head.

When she was younger, and wilder, Arya would have reacted without thinking. She would have pulled out her dagger and threatened or even struck against the king. The Arya she was as a child would not have cared that he was the king, she would have acted impulsively. With age came wisdom and greater understanding of one’s place in the world. If it had been a lord or a knight or some other highborn man who had tried to press such an advantage, Arya would not have restrained herself. Even if any prince, including Gendry, had done such a thing she would have stopped him. But Robert was the king, what was Arya’s word or honor in the face of that to people in this place?

Her siblings supported her, that was true. Sansa had held her longer than Arya was comfortable admitting and had recognized how uncomfortable she was enough to ferry her off to Jon to sleep with rather than suffer through any discomfort or dark thoughts by herself. Jon didn’t inquire too much into her problems after she refused to explain and had instead talked about other things to get her mind off King Robert until she fell asleep. She steered clear of the royal family the next day, keeping herself largely confined to her room or one of her siblings’ side. Robb and Bran were curious about her countenance, but she had waved it off as feeling fatigued at the weather. If Robb knew the truth Arya didn’t trust him not to do something irrational and she had restrained herself too much with the king to protect her family to let her brother throw it away, even if to defend her honor. Bran was wicked smart and could probably help her figure some things out, but he already kept so many secrets of Arya’s quietly, probably even things Arya didn’t know he knew. He paid closer attention to the family than he let on, same as Sansa, but she didn’t want to burden Bran. He was happier and more carefree in King’s Landing than he had been since the day three years pass when he turned two and ten and maturity had overtaken his youthful wildness almost as quickly as a thief in the night. Rickon was too young to involve in any of this and was terrible at keeping secrets besides that. From her father’s expression, Arya thought Sansa spoke to him but he didn’t approach Arya about it if he did know, not yet anyway.

Jon had been the one to coax her to join he, Elia, Princess Myrcella and Prince Trystane. Nymeria had also pushed her to get up and do something, not content to sit around a single room anymore. Of course, they just had to run into Gendry.

Besides the uncomfortable encounter with his father, there was their encounter which she was still trying to figure out what to make of. Between their talks about her sex life and the concept of love and the general comfortable atmosphere they’d fallen into that night among his friends, she felt conflicted. A part of her wanted to go back to ignoring him until her family left but the other wasn’t upset to have made fast friends with the prince. And she could admit, if only in her own head, that she found the prince attractive. Anyone would find him attractive. Still, Arya felt something she was unused to feeling around him: nervousness. She wasn’t ever nervous, especially not around some boy. It was easier being around him with the buffer of four other people and two wolves but as the others started to leave them on their own, she felt that feeling settling into the pit of her stomach.

Her eyes remained on Jon and Elia’s retreating forms as they rode off on their horses. She was happy Jon was getting along with someone here. At least their trip wasn’t for nothing then. Still, she was eager to leave this place for many reasons and one of them sat awkwardly by her side. She observed Gendry out of the corner of her eye. He was tensed up, his body showing how closed off he was. She didn’t understand why he was that way. He hardly had a reason.

“Is something wrong with you?” She asked bluntly, deciding to skip the tip-toeing around.

“Huh?” Gendry asked in reply, his eyes wide.

“Eloquent.” Arya replied dryly.

“I just… I wasn’t expecting you to talk.” Arya rose an eyebrow at that.

“I do have a mouth. Talking is what most people use it for.” She noticed Gendry pause and then shake his head after a moment as if to dispel some thought.

“To me. I wasn’t expecting you to talk to me after… well, after.” Arya stared at him, his hasty apology in the hallway replaying in her head. But that inevitably brought up his father and so she pushed it away.

“Like you said, you were drunk. I wasn’t exactly sober either. We talked. We had fun. I might’ve let more slip than I should’ve but that’s that.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to offend you in anyway if I did. And I won’t tell anyone what you told me if that’s what you’re worried about.” Arya scrunched her eyebrows in confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Gendry said simply. Arya opened her mouth as if to deny it but the prince continued.

“It’s okay. I get it. You were embarrassed. I was pretty embarrassed too.”

“About what?” Arya asked even though she remembered the way he stared at her lips without any hint of subtlety. Gendry was quiet for a long moment before speaking.

“I don’t like to drink generally. My father is a sparkling example against the perceived merits of drinking and my mother isn’t much better. I don’t usually overindulge. I guess I’ve just been stressed out lately and so I forgot myself. I apologize if I was behaving in a manner that you found untoward and I assure you that as long as your family is here, I won’t be behaving that way again.” Arya stared at him. She felt strange, conflicting emotions.

On one hand, she looked at him and saw so much of his father in him it was eerie. It made her feel like she was back in that hallway struggling to decide whether to pull her dagger or try to diffuse the moment with King Robert another way. She also was thinking about how she was seemingly summoned to the capital as a marriage prospect to one of the princes, but the king didn’t at all seem interested in marrying any of his sons off to her or anyone or dealing with them in general. She could admit in the safety of her head that she liked Gendry, was attracted to him. Enough to ever consider marrying him? No, but she did like him. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t at all tempted to let him kiss her that night. Maybe that was just the black beer in her system though. Who knew?

On the other hand, she had no intention to marry. Least of all to the man who would one day sit on the iron throne. She also didn’t want to marry into the family of the man who looked at her and saw her dead aunt, so much so he could get drunk enough to press an advantage. That was just asking for trouble. So, it was better that Gendry gave her an apology for that night. Still, it left her conflicted. Arya nodded in reply to the apology, wishing to quickly change the subject.

“So, are you really going to join the melee?” She asked, grabbing the skin of summerwine and pouring some into her goblet. The prince seemed disquieted by the sudden shift in conversation but nodded in response.

“I might as well. Jousting is the more princely activity for sure but I’m not much good on a horse and my father fought in melees before. Besides, Myrcella wants me to and like you said, it will be good for the people to see their prince can fight. I have to represent my family, don’t I?”

“Are your uncles not joining?”

“Uncle Stannis never does. Uncle Renly may join the tilts, but he never wins. I think this joust is Elia’s to lose. No one will see her coming. They don’t really know her skill for the sport and they’ll underestimate her for her size and because she’s a woman.”

“Yes, you men have a tendency for that.”

“Well, women like you and Elia have a tendency to prove us wrong.” Arya quirked a smirk in reply.

“Was that a compliment?” The prince seemed to blush almost and Arya’s smirk grew larger.

“You have skill with a blade, there’s no doubt of it. Which is why I’m still confused why you won’t join the melee.” Arya shrugged in return.

“Like I said, we don’t have tourneys in the North, except White Harbor and they keep to more Southron customs there so that’s no surprise. I ride a horse well but I’ve never trained with a lance. Besides, tourneys make my father uncomfortable. The archery competitions are tame enough that it shouldn’t bother him. Bran’s no good with a bow or else he’d have signed up for it as well.” Her father could never sit comfortably at a tourney. Arya thought it was to do with Aunt Lyanna and that tourney at Harrenhal where Prince Rhaegar rode past his own wife to crown Aunt Lyanna Queen of Love and Beauty. The archery competition though was far enough removed not to bother her father too much. It was easy to convince him to let her compete, especially because it wasn’t anywhere near as dangerous as the joust or melee. Less chance of some freak accident. Arya was the best archer in her family easily. Well, aside from Theon but he went back to the Iron Islands a while ago and she hadn’t seen her foster brother since then though they had exchanged a few words through raven, mostly small messages to each other slipped into his letters to Robb.

“Jon Arryn never really liked tourneys either. He thought they cost too much for little reward but entertainment.” Gendry commented.

“And so your father chooses to honor him with a tourney, makes sense.” Arya replied. She got well enough that King Robert had his own way of seeing and doing things.

“I know. Father’s always been that way. What people want and who they truly are factor very little into how he sees them.” Gendry answered, his voice heavy.

“You don’t have to tell me that.” Arya mumbled to herself. Prince Gendry rose an eyebrow at her.

“Did something happen?” Arya looked over at the prince. She couldn’t tell him, mostly because she didn’t want to tell him but also because she didn’t think it was worth it. Her family was dealing with it and there was no point in sewing any descent in his family, who it was obvious was already in strife. The Baratheons were nothing like the Starks, that was for sure. There was discord all throughout them and not a whole lot of unity that Arya could find in them. While the queen seemed to love her children, like Gendry said she clearly had her favorites and that’s when she was seen around the castle. She and the king were rarely ever together. She and her brother, the Imp, obviously hated each other but she supposed through lack of other options they were stuck with each other. Prince Joffrey was cruel and horrible to his younger siblings and cousin when Gendry wasn’t there to keep him in check but no one else did a thing. Arya and Sansa used to argue a lot and Jon and her mother never got along but she couldn’t imagine their family being like Gendry’s.

“No, nothing happened.” Gendry still looked at her with disbelief and with something else in his eyes, something like panic. Strange.

“If my father did something—”

“He didn’t.” Arya quickly wracked her brain for some excuse or explanation and decided the best lies were the ones which stuck closest to the truth.

“We did talk. Your father was drunk. He thought I was my Aunt Lyanna for a moment, that’s all.” She explained shortly.

“What’d you talk about?”

“Just… why he summoned my family here.” Arya said, trying to steer away from the topic of her and the king. For some reason, her answer made Gendry seem more curious and subtly panicked. What was wrong with him?

“It was so your father could pay his respects to Jon Arryn.” Arya gave Gendry a look at that. She wasn’t much for politics, not like Sansa anyway, but there were certain things even she knew. She knew history couldn’t be ignored if progress was to be made, she knew it was for the best if Gendry participated in the tourney even if he didn’t win and she could certainly read between the lines of a fairly simple message.

“None of my siblings, including myself, knew Jon Arryn. Why would we have to accompany my father to pay our respects? No, we weren’t summoned for that.” Gendry stared at her quietly. Arya shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the scrutiny, but she was never one to shy away from confrontations and she wouldn’t truly feel comfortable without putting this out there.

“My father said he hadn’t been keeping up a correspondence with the king so I suppose he wouldn’t know that Sansa was married but I can think of only one reason why he would summon all of us here ‘to meet his children and the other youths at court’: to look into us for marriage prospects.” Arya watched the prince’s eyes widen. A hundred emotions passed his face so quick Arya couldn’t pick them out before he settled on consternation.

“Oh. I suppose those words could be read that way.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Father’s never been particularly interested in my betrothal or any of my siblings’. Jon Arryn set up Myrcella and Trystane and Mother’s been more focused on making sure I don’t marry someone rather than that I do.”

“He hasn’t brought it up as far as I know to my father. Then again, he could have and my father hasn’t told me.” Arya frowned at the thought. She hoped her father would have talked to her about something like that, but she couldn’t be entirely sure.

“My father wanted Myrcella for your brother Robb for a while. He’s always wanted a Baratheon to marry a Stark since your aunt I guess, but Lord Arryn convinced him that Myrcella and Trystane was the better match for the realm.” Arya imagined Robb and Myrcella. Myrcella was a beautiful girl but Arya didn’t know if Robb would feel comfortable marrying a girl Bran’s age, younger than both his sisters. Besides, Robb marrying a Southerner could’ve spelled disaster for the North’s perception of him and their family considering their father married a Southron woman and built a sept at Winterfell, something most of the Northern lords still didn’t approve of. It was to Bran’s benefit that Robb and Sansa married Northerners and that Rickon was betrothed to one because he was free to marry someone from wherever. Arya was too she supposed, if she ever did marry.

“Robb and Wynafryd are happy together with their girls. He would’ve been kind to Myrcella, but I don’t know if he would’ve loved her. And she seems happy with Prince Trystane.”

“She does. I’m guessing the whole betrothal thing worried you a lot.”

“I don’t want to marry you or your brothers.” Arya blurted out. The prince looked taken aback and cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Well, I don’t want to marry you either.” He replied sounding petulant. Arya rolled her eyes.

“I just mean I don’t want to marry anyone. Not ever if I can help it. It’s not just you. Besides, who’d want to be queen of all of this?”

“Probably more than half the women in the realm, if not all.”

“Not me.” Gendry nodded quietly before a sly smile reached his lips, melting his previous worries away.

“Although, it would be quite something wouldn’t it? You and Joffrey standing at an alter together.” Arya’s face immediately turned up in disgust.

“You don’t think so?” He asked teasingly.

“All the gods forbid it. Old, new and red.”

“I think you two would make quite the handsome couple, I must say.” Arya shot him a glare, but the prince didn’t seem perturbed.

“I’d have to be physically dragged down the aisle and held in place the entire ceremony for such a thing to ever happen. With him or any man. No featherbed for me.” Arya protested, mumbling her last words, the old song playing in her head. It had always been a favorite of hers.

“I don’t know. I’m imagining it, it’s not so bad. He may even be convinced to sideline any brutality to animals just for you.” Arya rolled her eyes.

“Your brother’s a psychopath.”

“Aye, he is. But a cowardly one. I bet he’d be too afraid of you to try anything.” Gendry replied easily.

“Apparently, you’re not if we’re still having this conversation.”

“I should be afraid of you?”

“What was that you were saying earlier about underestimating women like me?” Gendry continued smiling and Arya hopped up, pulling Needle from her belt.

“Come on then, let’s spar.”

“I don’t have my hammer.”

“But you’ve got your sword and I’ve never fought against you with your sword so you’re at the advantage anyway.” Arya said, walking a ways away from the blanket and taking her fighting stance. She was thankful that she wore her riding trousers.

“Something tells me the fact that you’re telling me I have an advantage doesn’t make it any truer.” Gendry said but he joined her and pulled his longsword from his belt. Arya calculated his grip. It was strong, too tight. He was obviously not as well practiced with it as compared to his hammer, his grip gave away his lack of confidence in the weapon and his prowess with it. The two circled one another, sizing the other up before Gendry attacked her. What he did lack in skill he made up for in strength. Arya knew this so decided to not meet him head on, Syrio’s words playing in her head.

_‘Remember child, this is not the dance of the Westeros we are learning, the knight’s dance: hacking and hammering. This is the Bravos' dance, the water dance. It is swift and sudden.’_

She spun away from his swings. Gendry’s handling of a blade was exactly as Syrio made it out to be, relying on brute strength over skill, hammering and hacking towards her. His blade whistled through the air past her body. She was a smaller target, just like Syrio said. Gendry’s eyes spoke, told where he was aiming to swing.

“You’re horrible with a sword. Rickon swings better than you.” Arya taunted as she let Needle meet his blade, the kiss of the metal ringing through the air.

“I told you as much.”

“Well, it’s stupid of you to not have practiced more with it. Who says you’ll always have your hammer with you? You won't, like now.” Arya retorted, spinning away from him.

“That almost sounds like you’re concerned for me.” Gendry quipped back, swiping at Needle but Arya kept moving, keeping her distance from him.

“Let’s not get carried away.” She replied.

They focused on the match for a time, Arya taking note of the way his eyes twitched with movement. He seemed to pick up on what she was doing because he began using his eyes to fake her out, feinting in one way or the other but Arya caught herself each time. She could see Gendry getting more and more frustrated as she danced away from him, not allowing him to get over on her. And he was obviously tiring out as well. The sword was not as heavy as the hammer but he was not as versed in it and it took more out of him than his hammer did.

It might’ve been that Arya was getting cocky, even if just in her own head, because as she made to dance away from him once more, he feinted again and before she knew it he had his arm around her waist. Arya got Needle up in time to keep his sword away from her. She struggled ineffectually, trying to break his hold but he pulled her back to his chest and then she was trapped there.

“Let me go.” She demanded.

“Yield first.”

“I won’t, I didn’t lose.” She retorted, angrily thrashing against him but she couldn’t escape his large arms. She felt hot all over, sweat coating her forehead and being so close to Gendry didn’t help with the heat. Her cheeks were probably flushed red from their activities and she was sure they didn’t look decent right then, but she didn’t care about how they looked so much as she did about beating him.

“It looks to me, Lady Arya, like you’re not winning either so yield.” Arya growled a little before stomping down on Gendry’s foot. His hold loosened, and Arya slipped down out of his arms and twisted quickly, raising Needle to his chin.

“You yield.” Gendry smirked in reply.

“Not on your life.” Arya narrowed a glare at him. Gendry pressed his sword against hers, testing her. She jutted Needle closer to his face.

“Yield.”

“No.”

“I’m going to cut you.” She replied roughly.

“Injuring your prince is a punishable offense.” Arya glared harder and Gendry chuckled lowly in response. He began pressing at Needle with his longsword. He was stronger than her so he was easily able to push Needle away from his face. Arya remembered a trick from Syrio. Using her superior speed, Arya ducked under Gendry’s sword and jabbed fingers into his armpit, causing him to drop his arm as a reflex. With his wrist now wide open, she grabbed it at the pressure point and squeezed just enough for him to drop his sword. She kicked it away and levelled Needle at his face once more as he recovered from the shock of the move.

“That’s cheating, you tickled me!” Gendry protested.

“I didn’t tickle you, I poked you. It’s well within my rights to use anything I can use at my disposal to win, especially as I’m at a disadvantage. You’re bigger and stronger than me.” Arya replied smugly, feeling delighted at beating him and not drawing. Gendry’s eyes flashed suddenly.

“You know what? You’re right. It is well within your rights to use anything at your disposal.” Arya’s eye narrowed at that.

“Do you yield?” She asked, somewhat cautiously.

“Sure.”

“Say the words, stupid.” Arya commanded. Gendry shook his head, amusement clear in his eyes.

“I yield.” He said. Arya lowered Needle slowly, still cautious. When Gendry didn’t move or do much of anything, she lowered her sword completely. That’s when he chose to strike. Arya didn’t have time to raise her sword as he charged her and she found herself on the ground with him, the two rolling down a hill.

“What the hell?” Arya exclaimed as they reached the bottom and Gendry had her pinned underneath him.

“Yield.”

“The fight’s over, idiot. You already yielded.”

“I had my fingers crossed.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

“Does too. Means I lied. Yield.”

“Whose to say I won’t just say I yield and cross my fingers like you did?”

“Good point.” Gendry grabbed Arya’s hands and she immediately began fighting him but he pinned them above her, splaying her fingers out so she couldn’t cross them. He was too heavy on top of her and she couldn’t buck him off, realistically she knew that. But she still trashed underneath him, trying to throw him off of her. If she hadn’t been bucking against him so much and fighting him, she probably wouldn’t have felt it, felt _him_. She stopped moving, shock filling her. He stiffened as well on top of her, staring down at her with embarrassment and shock before scrambling up off of her.

“I’m sorry. I’m not… I mean I didn’t… this isn’t… I…” He trailed off, stepping away from her as she stayed on the ground, still reeling a bit. Obviously, it wasn’t the first time she felt a man’s hardness against her, but she wasn’t expecting it. Sparring could get one’s blood flowing, work them up, and arousal wasn’t an uncommon thing to feel. Truthfully, she was getting worked up herself. Having Gendry so close to her, his body pressing against her didn’t discourage it at all, her signs of her arousal were just much subtler in comparison to him.

Arya stared up at him. She was nervous and unsure. She should maybe be angry or disgusted at having him so close to her in his state, indignant maybe. Afraid, possibly. But she wasn’t any of those things. She was… she was curious and nervous but above all else, she was keyed up and not unreceptive to Gendry. She wasn’t blind or dead, he was attractive. She found him attractive, she knew that as soon as she first let her guard down around him. And, if she were honest, it wasn’t just attraction. She liked Gendry. He annoyed her, there was no doubt of that, but he also intrigued her and sometimes he made her laugh and he didn’t make her feel less than or anything other than herself for any reason. She wasn’t Lyanna’s mirror or Lord and Lady Stark’s willful daughter or Sansa’s horse-faced sister, she was just Arya and she liked being just Arya with someone who wasn't her blood.

She stood up slowly. Gendry took a step back from her like she was diseased. Arya stared after him, watching as a blush colored his cheeks and he couldn’t seem to look at her. She didn’t know what to say either and wracked her brain for something before blurting the first thing that came to mind.

“I don’t think I’d have minded as much.”

“What?” He asked with confusion. Arya silently cursed herself for saying anything because now she felt too embarrassed to finish her thought but she pushed through it.

“If I’d have been forced to marry you. I think if I gave you a chance I wouldn’t have minded as much. Not saying I would marry you, to be clear. Just saying I could do worse. I could be stuck with a Frey. Walder Frey even, gods forbid.” Arya said, joking lamely. Gendry quirked a fake smile at her but continued staring at her, his gaze heavy. Arya took a step closer and held her hands up in a calming motion as Gendry made to step back again. It was almost like calming a wild or wounded animal. She kept stepping closer to him until she was in his space again, his hulking frame towering over her almost comically.

Arya reached her hands out and gripped his strong shoulders. There was a laughable nine-inch height difference between them so even when she got on her tip toes, she didn’t reach his lips like she wanted to, but a tug of the shoulders fixed that and then his lips were pressed to hers. His lips were soft and that was something of a surprise. She expected them to be rougher. Her lips weren’t soft, she knew, because she bit them frequently stripping any ladylike softness away. He tasted of wine and dragonpeppers. An odd combination but she didn’t mind it. His lips moved tentatively, almost hesitantly, against hers and his hands seemed to reluctantly grab hold of her waist, holding her in place so they could continue kissing.

She wasn’t some Southern damsel, she wouldn’t wax poetic even in her own head about a kiss but she wanted to get lost in it. She didn’t want to think about anything, not the king, not she and Gendry’s titles, not her future or his or the kingdom’s or even her family. All she wanted to think about was his lips and hers and how long she could kiss him before breathing became necessary and she would have to actually face the results of this decision. However, before she could press herself closer to him, Gendry pulled his lips from her and pushed her away slightly.

“I can’t, I… I’m not… I can’t do this with you.” He mumbled, his eyes sliding over her. Arya’s eyebrow furrowed a little.

“What are you talking about? I want to and you want to.”

“It’s not about… it’s complicated, Arya. Things with my father…” Arya felt herself bristle. King Robert again, she didn’t want to hear any more about him.

“I just can’t do this with you. Not you.” Arya felt hurt slowly replacing the anger that was rising in her.

“Oh. It’s me in particular, is that it?”

“That’s not what I’m… you don’t know, you can’t _know_ what I really mean.”

“So why don’t you just tell me? I can't read your mind, Gendry. Why are you acting so weird?” Arya retorted, glaring at Gendry as he stumbled over his words.

"Gendry?" She rolled her eyes after a moment and turned to walk away.

“Fucking Baratheons.” She mumbled angrily, making her way to her horse. She ignored Gendry calling after her and rode off as soon as she untied her horse.

She rode fast away from him, her eyes watering as wind whipped past her and Nymeria kept pace at her side. She would never admit the tears were caused by anything other than the wind and she wouldn’t acknowledge the hurt she felt nestling in her chest.


	14. Elia I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia muses on the peculiar situation in the capital and (reluctantly) introduces Jon to her sisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is late by my standards. I got swamped with school so updates may be more spaced out from now on. However, there's a blizzard in New York tonight so I had time to write.
> 
> I have made changes in the direction I want this fic to go. Some of you may have noticed that the rating has changed, but for this story to make sense I decided not to sacrifice the plot for the sake of that kind of progression between the main pairing, or to sacrifice Arya's characterization for what would just amount to smut and useless tension that would feel disingenuous to me as the writer when I can tell a more interesting story without that and one that I feel more confidence in.
> 
> I also feel the need to stress that this story does have a thread (or several converging threads) that don't just revolve around the main pairing, so it regularly takes breaks from their POVs in order to build up the story to the climax and flesh out the other characters. The breaks are necessary in my opinion considering the number of people secrets such as Cersei's and Ned's affect and since this is an AU I feel better fleshing out the altered versions of the characters through POV chapters. That way you, the readers, can also gather a better understanding of who they are within the context of this story versus in the book/show. I know some of you may not like that but I have a clear view for the story and the romance is not the be-all, end-all of it (though it is a very important element) nor is just Arya and Gendry's characters, as I tried to make clear in the tags. But that being the case, I've decided to say which POV the next chapter will be from in the end notes to give what I suppose is fair warning. 
> 
> Other than that, please enjoy this installment.

Elia was more observant than she thought people gave her credit for, even her own family. With them it must be that the way she was in youth, wild and willful and haughty, still colored their beliefs about her. She spent her years from eleven to fifteen as a squire to the roguish Ser Dickon Manwoody at Kingsgrave and his ne'er-do-well attitude did little to calm her. Soon after returning home, she was sent to King's Landing at six and ten. That left no time to show a more matured person to her family. They still looked at her and saw the terror she was in her childhood at the Water Gardens running around with Obella. With most others it was her status as a Dornish bastard that led to their underestimations but while her status drew attention to her, it also had its benefits. She was able to gather a lot of information by using others’ perceptions of her to her advantage. She had done it countless times before with a wide variety of characters.

That was partly why she was so worried now. The gossip mill of the Red Keep was worryingly silent and clueless about the shift in the atmosphere of the keep and the royal family in particular. She was sure that Varys' little birds sang as sure as ever and that Littlefinger's ears hadn't gone deaf but she had never dared to put herself in a position where she was indebted or noticed by either of them. Most of the people at court put it down to Ser Jaime dying so soon after Lord Arryn but Elia knew better. Lord Arryn was an old man, death hardly far away for him. As for the Kingslayer, the knight’s death might’ve affected the queen adversely but the king wouldn’t care, not enough to act so strangely.

Elia did her best to quell Myrcella’s worries because she did not want her friend to be stressed out or anxious but she noted that the king did not treat his daughter the way he used to. He was not an attentive father, Robert Baratheon. Elia had her problems with her father, they had always had their problems between them, but at least she knew her father loved her. Baratheon cared more for whores and drink than the realm and his family but Myrcella did rank somewhere in the few things he cared for, so his coldness to her was alarming. Also alarming was her parents, cousins and sisters' sudden appearances.

No one had mentioned anything to her about their coming to King’s Landing. When Elia asked, Trystane said he was eager to meet Myrcella, Arianne expressed curiosity for the capital, her sisters said they were there to compete and her mother she said her father heard Gregor Clegane was going to be in King’s Landing for the tourney and so he wanted to attend. That was believable enough, except he didn’t bother coming to King’s Landing any other time The Mountain That Rides was in a tourney and he didn't care a lick about Jon Arryn, so why come to this tourney? It was too convenient with the upheaval of the castle.

Elia was briefly ripped from her thoughts at an alarmed noise coming from the two men sparring before her. She watched as Jon stumbled away from Ser Barristan, gathering himself from some move the older knight must’ve landed that Elia missed. He had tricks up his sleeve, the old man.

“Your footwork is excellent.” The knight complimented.

“Thank you, Ser.” Jon replied.

“It could be perfect if you'd only focus more on what my eyes are telling you and trust your feet to know where you want them to go. Do not let who your enemy is alarm you. You must operate as if I were any other man in the world.” Ser Barristan advised.

“A hard task. One easier said than done. You’re not just any man.” Jon replied with a slight smile. Elia knew he was being genuine and not kissing up to the knight, because that was just who Jon was. He was a genuine, true person. A burst of fresh air in this cesspool of a city she was forced to come to.

She hadn’t wanted to come to King’s Landing in the first place. She rebelled heavily when her Uncle Doran said she was to go and be a companion for her cousin’s betrothed. She had even tried to run away but Daemon Sand found her and brought her back to her parents. It was her father who convinced her to go.

_‘You have an opportunity that none of us do, my daughter. You will be in the belly of the beast, and though I am loath to send you to those heathens, you will be our eyes and ears. Your presence will bring us one step closer to avenging your namesake, my sweet sister, and placing the rightful heir on the throne. As long as Baratheon drinks and whores his way through King's Landing and Tywin Lannister preens at the Rock, Elia will never rest and so I will never rest. Do this thing for her and for our family.’_

She had been reluctant still but she had surrendered herself to Uncle Doran's scheming for her father's sake and let herself be shipped off from her home to this place. She hadn’t expected to like anything about the city, not the food or the smell or the clothes or the people and their judgements, not the Red Keep or the simpering courtiers or the royal family and definitely not the princess. She was proven wrong though.

Myrcella was nothing like she had expected. She wasn't spoilt or cruel or judgmental or stupid. She was sweet and nice and understanding to a fault. She never once said an ill word to Elia, even when Elia would have deserved it. She wasn’t pleasant company those first few months, hoping her bad behavior would make the king send her away, but Jon Arryn wouldn’t let him and eventually even Elia, as stubborn as she was, could not help but bend to Princess Myrcella’s enduring purity and kindness. She wanted to be her best for Myrcella since then, wanted to please her princess, her friend, perhaps her only true friend. She knew Myrcella did not like it when Elia was the topic of gossip or ill conversations and so she tried not to be, even though she knew Myrcie wouldn’t judge her. And that was rare. Even in Dorne, she had been judged. She wasn’t as beautiful as Tyene and Nymeria. She wasn't as good with weapons as Obara and Dorea. She wasn't as politically savvy as Arianne. She wasn't as smart as Sarella. She wasn't as sensible as Quentyn. She wasn't as sweet as Loreza or Trystane. She wasn't even as great a liar as Obella, who could talk her way out and into any trouble. Elia had been the terror, the one her father couldn't understand despite being named for his sister. She was the one who worried him the most, who probably inspired many of his gray hairs, his difficult daughter who used to always smell like horses to the despair of her mother.

Sometimes Elia still did smell like a stable boy, but only faintly and she had grown into her looks. Perhaps she wasn't Ty or Nym but she wasn't plain. That brought with it a new set of judgements and preconceived notions. A man could give her a compliment and then expect a favor from her in return and if she refused the next thing she knew rumors were running rampant regarding her virtue, most likely started by his wife who blamed Elia for her husband's indiscretions. She hadn't slept with a third of the people the court believed she had but it was to her advantage that they believed that because secrets trickled down to her, ones she could use to protect her princess. With that benefit in mind, she tried not to care about the rumors. She told everyone she didn’t care but she did. She cared a lot. Myrcella didn’t cared though, not at all. She never changed her view on Elia. She judged her based on how she knew her, not what everyone else said.

Elia thought it was singular, that she wouldn’t meet anyone like that again who instantly accepted her and even encouraged her to be herself. Someone who she thought of as genuinely good with no airs or agendas. Then she met Jon Snow.

She couldn’t say why she was so stuck on him. He was good-looking but there were better looking men and women that she could get the attention of if she tried. He had a sullen demeanor. His resting face was brooding. He was quiet and shy. He wouldn’t kiss her and he blushed when she held his hand. That hadn’t ever been her type. A man like him had been an amusement to her in years past. Something to giggle about and entertain herself with, not something to keep going back to, not something that intrigued her and yet he did. He listened to her and he understood her insecurities without her having to explain them at copious lengths. And that should be concerning to her, something to be wary or afraid of. Arianne would tell her to drop a man like that because a man like that was dangerous and likely to betray you one day, but Elia wouldn’t leave him alone.

He was more than she deserved probably, and he wouldn’t be in the city for much longer so getting too attached to him could seriously turn around on her. He could decide he wanted nothing to do with her once he left the city and she couldn’t blame him if he did. But so far he didn’t realize he could do much better yet and so she held on to him.

Her attachment to him was what made her realize he was a large part of the strangeness around the keep. Whispers, while sparse, did mention that King Robert's meeting with Lord Stark's bastard went differently than expected. Gendry also acted strangely with Jon. He tried to avoid him and he didn't look him in the eye. She had entertained doing what Myrcie suggested and seducing information from the prince but seeing him drool over Arya Stark had quashed the idea in its infancy. She had thought maybe his countenance with Jon was owed to his crush on Arya. Maybe he was nervous around her brother. It would be reasonable. But Gendry didn't act that way with Lords Robb, Brandon or Rickon. So, why Jon? He and Arya were the closest of the siblings but that didn't quite explain Gendry’s actions. It had to do with Jon, not Arya. She hoped whatever it was he would cave enough to tell Arya and maybe it could make its way back to her, which was why she pushed Arya and Gendry to be alone.

Even with all that, Myrcella was never far from her mind and she would make sure her best friend was okay in the end, that wasn’t even a question.

She was so lost in her thoughts that when a sparring sword unceremoniously landed close to her foot, she jumped. She looked up as Jon jogged over, an apologetic smile on his face.

“Okay?” He asked. She nodded wordlessly. He quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re quiet.” She should also be wary that she was transparent enough that he could pick up on her mood, but she pushed away the voice in her head telling her to run.

“What? Hoping I’d be cheering for you? I would scarcely ever bet against Ser Barristan the Bold. And it seems I was proven right.” She replied, trying to inject as much playfulness as she could manage into her voice. Jon nodded his head graciously in response as Ser Barristan approached them.

“He’s as good as Bran always says. I hadn’t a chance I fear.”

“On the contrary, you put up quite the fight. A skilled swordsman indeed. Reminds me of another…” Ser Barristan trailed off there and Elia picked up the thread of conversation before it could fall flat.

“I thank you for going easy on him at least. I do yet have use for him, Ser.” Ser Barristan snapped out of his trance and graced Elia with a smile.

“A noble use, I hope.”

“I’ll never tell.” She shot back playfully. Ser Barristan shook his head.

“She would’ve liked you.” He muttered underneath his breath but she heard him all the same. She knew he meant her aunt, her namesake. He often would say things like this under his breath, thinking she couldn’t hear him.

_‘You look so like her.’_

_‘She would’ve adored you.’_

_‘She would’ve enjoyed your company.’_

And many other things to the same effect. Elia had heard it so often, she wondered how true it actually was.

“I’m afraid if your intentions aren’t noble, my lady, a fight for poor Jon’s honor may be in order.” Ser Barristan spoke up. Elia’s grin widened as Jon blushed beside the older knight.

“Ser, I’d never be so stupid as to cross blades with you. Lances mayhaps.”

“You will be riding in the tourney, I hear.”

“It is true.”

“Then I hope I won’t be riding against you.” Ser Barristan replied, shooting her a wink. Elia smiled at him as he walked away, giving the two youths nods as he left the sparring field. Jon dropped down on the grass beside Elia as he left. His shirt was sticking to his body from the sweat and wisps of his curls stuck to his forehead.

 _He may not be the most handsome man, but he is far from the ugliest._ She thought as she felt a flutter of desire in her stomach, but she ignored it.

“So?” Elia asked.

“So, what?”

“How was it, sparring with the great Barristan Selmy? Everything you hoped?”

“He is more Bran’s hero, to be clear, but I concede his skill hasn’t been exaggerated. He is a great swordsman. He’s earned his acclaim, I can say, even if just after only one sparring session. I don’t know many knights who’d want to spar with a bastard in the first place.”

“He’s a special sort, Ser Barristan. Loyal. Good.” Elia replied, passing over her water skin for Jon to drink. She wondered about Ser Barristan sometimes. He served three Targaryen kings and now served a Baratheon king. He would speak to her if she asked questions about her aunt and her aunt’s husband and the War of the Usurper but he was never so forward as to defame either King Robert or Prince Rhaegar, though he showed little love for King Aerys and much for King Aegon and King Jaehaerys. He was closer to Tommen of the royal children over Myrcella, but he cared for them both. However, she doubted that Ser Barristan, despite being commander of the kingsguard, knew what was going on with the royal family. He tried to keep a distance from their personal affairs. Either way, she wouldn’t try to manipulate him for information, if only out of respect.

“That’s rare here, isn’t it?” Jon asked to her previous comment.

“Decency, you mean? Kindness? Goodness? Loyalty? Yes, you will find it in short supply here.”

“Who would want to live in a place like that?”

“Some have little choice in the matter.”

“Did you have a choice?” He asked curiously. Elia paused before shaking her head.

“Not really, no. But one must make the best of their circumstances, mustn’t they?”

“They must.” Elia did not want to talk about things that made her uneasy or disquieted her anymore, so she turned the conversation.

“But you would know all about what different places exist in the world, sailing around on that ship of yours.”

“I’ve been to quite a few places on _Lycaon_. The Free Cities mostly but also the Slaves Cities when they were still slave cities, the Summer Isles, Ibben even.” Elia positioned herself so she was laying down on the grass, the wispy material of her yellow dress billowing around her legs as she laid out with her head resting on Jon’s stomach, not caring if anyone thought them inappropriate.

“Will you tell me about all the places you’ve been? I’ve only ever been here and Dorne. I always wanted to visit the Summer Isles with my sister, Sarella, but my uncle never allowed it.” Jon launched into a story about his time at the Red Flower Vale and the isle of Walano along the archipelago of the Summer Islands and Elia listened intently, allowing his words to build the picture in her mind of the place. She could see it easily. The dark-skinned people in their colorful dress, the trees bearing strange juicy fruits with the small monkeys indigenous to the Isles swinging on the vines. The marketplace along the docks, full of the Summer Isles’ swan ships with their flowing white sails. The hot white sand and the deep blue water. It sounded like a paradise, though she knew such a thing didn’t exist in this world. Still, Elia wouldn’t mind searching it out and seeing it all for herself if she ever got a chance to. It didn’t feel like she would, it felt like there was a shoe waiting to drop and she was on edge wondering when and where and who it would land on. It scared her. She hated being afraid and she hated the morbidity of her thoughts of late. She almost missed the careless girl she used to be because at least then she was, by definition, care-free.

“Are you certain you’re alright? Because you don’t seem it. I’ve not known you for long, it’s true, but you don’t seem okay. Did something happen?” Elia gazed up at Jon, his eyes filled with worry. He didn’t have to be. Most men she knew wouldn’t be or wouldn’t care enough about her to ask. They would keep talking about themselves, not caring what thoughts rolled around her mind. Suffice to say she was not very good at picking her partners but that was almost the point. It would never last with those other men, and it wasn’t meant to, but Jon Snow wasn’t a man that you played games with for a short while and moved on from. Which begged the question why Elia was even still entertaining him, but she’d rather not think on the answer. She should be proud of herself, this definitely showed character growth on her part but that came with its worries, worries of men and women grown. Like as not, whether she ignored them, those worries weren’t going away. A part of her wanted to share them with Jon so she was not alone with its burden, but she thought better of it.

“It’s nothing you need concern yourself over, just persistent worries that can’t take a hint.”

“Can I help?”

“I don’t think so, no. As a great a listener as you are, it won’t help this time I’m afraid.” Jon frowned. He opened his mouth before closing it again, a hint of frustration in his eyes. He must not like not knowing what to do. She could relate.

“When you leave King’s Landing, will you go back to the Red Flower Vale or Walano?” Jon seemed discontent at the subject change but allowed it.

“If I’m needed to. More likely my father will send me to Myr to trade for more glass for glass gardens. Winter is coming after-all, the castles on the Wall are being built up and Father’s ordered that all of them must have at least one glass garden.”

“Are the Wildlings very different from anyone else you’ve met in your travels?” Elia asked, grabbing Jon’s hand to play with his fingers.

“They’re… they’re a special bunch, the Freefolk. They have their own way of doing things but in many ways they are similar to any other Northman, though with their own strange customs. They don’t name their children until they reach two years of age. They’ve their own way of governing: chieftains and magnars and elders over lords or knights or kings. Women can be warriors among their ranks, spearwives they're called.”

“That isn’t strange to me. It’s you Northerners below the deserts that are so uptight about it all.” Elia teased.

“We have our warrior women in the North. Rest assured not all of our women sit around all day knitting by the fire.”

“That’s good to hear, elsewise I don’t think we’d let our sister carry on with you.” Elia and Jon looked up to see Obara, Nymeria and Tyene approaching her. Nymeria and Tyene looked as beautiful as ever. It was always hard to tell which one of the two was more beautiful than the other. Tyene took more from her septa mother than their father. She was fair-skinned with golden hair and deep blue eyes the almond shape of their father’s. Dimples bloomed in her cheeks and she had a gentle, sweet voice. She looked down at them with a friendly smile dressed in a bastardized version of septa’s robes, more revealing than normal while maintaining modesty and without the headwear. Elia could make out the shrewd glint in her azure gaze, the calculation and perhaps a hint of jealousy. Her older sister liked to feign innocence and piety, but she could be as treacherous as the sand snakes people regarded them as. Her soft pale hands were as deadly as Obara's calloused ones. Tyene didn’t wield weapons like the rest of them did but she shared their father’s knowledge of poisons.

Nymeria stood in stark contrast to their sister. She was raven-haired with large black eyes, her skin olive-toned. She cut a slender figure standing elegantly over them, her Myrish silk dress hanging on her body just so, with her hair pulled into a long braid over her shoulder. Her full lips were stained wine red and curved in a silken smile as she looked down on them, accentuating her high cheekbones.

Obara was different. She was not beautiful or fair, she looked mannish oft times. Her black eyes were close set and she kept her black hair in knots. She was quick to anger and had a prickly, hot-tempered disposition. Where their sisters wore dresses, she wore brown leathers and breeches and had her spear strapped to her back and a whip at her side. She looked ready for a fight. She looked to be fixing for one actually, looking disdainfully around the training fields before turning her disdain on Elia and Jon.

Elia misliked being on the ground and looked down upon by her sisters. She remembered days when she idolized them as being infallible, and in a way she still did, but the lessons she learned in King's Landing were different than her sisters' lessons in Dorne. Elia was no longer a child, she didn’t want them to view her as such now. She stood up and dragged Jon with her, noting the touch of amusement in Nym’s eyes.

“Jon, these are my three eldest sisters, Obara, Nymeria and Tyene.” Jon looked between them, his eyes taking them in with curiosity and caution.

“Hello, I’m Jon Snow. I’m Elia’s…” Jon trailed off, not sure what to call himself. They had never defined their relationship. They weren’t lovers. She was friendly with him, but more than any woman would be with a man who was just a friend. She didn’t bother making that distinction as she picked up his loose thread.

“He’s my friend.” Elia completed. Nymeria’s amusement showed on her lips now.

“Your friend, you say? You did look quite friendly cuddled up here like two doves.” She teased. Tyene let out a tinkling laugh but Elia read her easily. There was jealousy in her eyes as she looked at Jon. The same jealousy when she saw Myrcella’s curls and the unshakable poise Lady Sansa walked with and a few dresses of Lady Margaery's. Her sister always had a covetous part of herself with a touch of pettiness that Elia ignored when she was younger or just teased her about. She couldn't not notice it now after three years in the capital.

“I’ve not done anything to dishonor your sister, if that was your worry.” Jon replied. Now all of her sister’s tittered. Well, Nym and Tyene did while Obara’s lip tilted up in a barely-there smile.

“No more than she has done so to herself, I’m sure. Words of your exploits in the capital have reached us even back home. We feared letting words continue trickling in would turn Ella, Do and Reza to copies of you. We all have our appetites but yours are as storied as Father’s before he settled with your mother.” Tyene replied, her tone sickly sweet. Elia felt hot fury roil in her stomach at Tyene’s gentle goading. Her words could be as venomous as her poisons. She wanted to snap at her and tell her that she wasn’t half as good at her act as she thought. She had spent the past three years around sycophants and actors and liars, all of them better than Tyene. Her pious act would mean nothing here any more than Nymeria’s disarming beauty and elegance did or Obara’s callousness and temper. None of them would survive here. They’d have been swallowed up and spit out by a Cersei Lannister or Margaery Tyrell or killed trying to square off against a Sandor Clegane. They would be dead by now, but not her. She was still here, still learning, still as unsuspected a player or threat as she was to start and all for the sake of her family’s ambitions, ambitions that meant naught now with Viserys Targaryen dead and Daenerys Targaryen not planning to retake the Seven Kingdoms any time soon, if ever.

She felt Jon bristle beside her and felt disappointed that her sister’s needling seemed to work. Most men did not like to hear how the women they gallivanted with were less than maidenly. Nevermind Elia lost her maidenhead from all her horse riding long before she laid with a man. It made her wonder at some men’s penchant for whores if they were so concerned with virtue. She was going to say something but Jon spoke up before she could.

“I haven’t been in this city for long, but it strikes me as a particularly venomous one. I am a sailor, a trader, and I’ve been to few places as… deleterious as this. Whispers are currency in places like this and currency can be falsified just as easily as words. One must learn to sift through rumors for truths and even then, one can find so little of that in rumors. My father taught me that while the words of another shouldn’t be ignored, it’s best to gain the measure of a man, or a woman, by _their_ actions and _their_ words not another’s. All that to say if I were you, I’d tread carefully with rumors. It can lead one to dark places best avoided.” Elia looked at Jon with shock filling her. He looked so much more like his father then. His face was hard as stone and unmoving, his dark grey eyes cold as ice. She hadn’t expected him to defend her, hadn’t even wanted him to. Some of the rumors about her were true even. She had nothing to say though, nothing that wouldn’t feel lackluster after that. She glanced towards her sisters and could make out varying levels of approval in their eyes. Was that a test? She wouldn’t put it past them.

“Well then, they say a lion has claws but I say a wolf does just as well.” Nymeria teased. Jon relaxed beside her. Her sisters were more amicable after that, questioning Jon and needling at Elia enough to make her anger rise, though she didn’t show them just how much they were bothering her. She didn’t know why they were bothering her so much. Maybe because they were talking down to her. Maybe because she still didn’t know why they were in King’s Landing, the real reason they were in King’s Landing and not their platitudes and lies.

Elia felt a persistent gaze on them as the five stood together. She tried her hardest to ignore it, figuring it was some judgmental septa or an annoying lordling but when she got fed up enough to investigate who it was she realized it was her father. He was stood across the field with Daemon Sand and Tyrion Lannister ignoring the men to stare at Jon and Elia with a scrutinizing gaze. Her father never cared much who his daughters decided to consort with, but he glared at the two of them together now.

“Elia, should I…?” Jon trailed off nervously, having noticed her father as well. But Elia shook her head in reply.

“No. Just ignore him.” Elia didn’t know what her father’s problem was but if he expected her to move from her position or send Jon away she had no plans to do so and so she wouldn’t, especially as he wouldn’t even tell her the true reason why he was in King’s Landing.

Perhaps she was still his difficult daughter, in spirit if not in deed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Margaery
> 
> Questions and comments are welcome.


	15. Margaery I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery and Tyrion have a pivotal conversation.

Margaery stood at the window staring out at King’s Landing below her. She could see all of the city. There were still people walking up and down the streets. The grounds for the tourney tomorrow were already set up. There was light coming from inns and brothels. From this height and vantage point it should’ve been a beautiful sight, even at night. Under the gleaming stars, it should be a sight that inspired awe and wonder like standing in the Hightower and looking over Oldtown or standing in the highest window of Storm’s End admiring Shipbreaker Bay and how the castle stood the test of the terrible weather off the Bay with little wear to show for it. King’s Landing wasn’t a place to be admired for its beauty though. The Great Sept of Baelor was a sight with its marble dome and crystal towers but it was surrounded by the packed in houses, too close together. Orphanages were full to bursting. The poor filled the streets, worsening the stench of the city. It didn’t seem like that would change any time soon.

Margaery had once wanted to be queen of all this. She would’ve been a good queen, a much better one than Cersei, but the lioness had made sure that Gendry would take no interest in her. Joffrey had though, the little monster that he was. Margaery wasn’t pleased with the results of her charms and worried it would disappoint her grandmother but when she had reported back, her grandmother had simply smiled at her,

 _‘There are queens who don’t wear crowns, my dear.’_ She had said.

And so, Margaery married Renly Baratheon and became folded into the royal family, even if not as the queen. Lady of Storm’s End wasn’t a bad title, especially since she was essentially the lord of Storm’s End as Renly was horrible at running the keep and chose to run off with Loras more times than not. Margaery did not mind that her husband and brother got up to what they did. She’d even partially married Renly and accepted Loras into their household so Loras could be with him. Renly had given Margaery a son, her little Leland, and he would inherit Storm’s End. A child born into the king’s bloodline. Then once Margaery’s babe with Tyrion was born and the truth of its parentage was let slip they would be in position to rule over Casterly Rock. Jaime Lannister had no children. Gendry would take the iron throne. Joffrey couldn't run a bedchamber let alone the Westerlands. Myrcella would be in Dorne and Tywin Lannister would fall on his sword before letting a Martell become lord of Casterly Rock alongside his granddaughter. Tommen was more like to become a maester than a lord. That just left Tyrion and then eventually her child with him as she knew Tyrion had no intentions of ever remarrying after that business with Tysha. Even if Tywin Lannister need die before such plans could go forth, her grandmother would ensure it happened and then there would be Tyrell blood ruling both the Stormlands and the Westerlands, the king and queen’s homelands respectively. Possibilities from there opened up for House Tyrell to rise further and garner more power. But those were endeavors for the future and generations that Margaery would either not see or be the age of her grandmother by the time their plans reached fruition. That would be okay with her, at least she would see the fruits of her grandmother’s labors then.

“I can hear you thinking. It is quite annoying.” Margaery heard from behind her. She turned to see Tyrion awake laying in his bed. The moon shone into the room and threw his shadow on the wall. It made him look like a full grown man, if only for a moment.

Margaery had been reluctant when her grandmother told her to work her wiles on Tyrion. He did not seem a bad man and it had nothing to do with attraction, she’d worked with men she felt disgust and contempt for and won them over. She did not think she’d be able to win Tyrion over at all. He was smart and observant, more than most gave him credit for simply because he was a dwarf. She thought he would figure out their plans if she became too involved with him. She was sure he still had a healthy dose of skepticism and suspicion for her and her family but he also trusted her and cared for her. Truth be told, Margaery cared for him too. She may not love him but love could be so overrated and childish. It could be so fleeting and so volatile and cause so much pain in the end. Was it really better to have love between a pair than it was to have respect, care or trust? Was it better to have love than to have an understanding about a person, a synergy that couldn’t be replicated by something as fickle as love? Margaery didn’t think so. She let softer doves like dearest Sansa and Princess Myrcella have love, Margaery would settle for something different and more appealing to her.

“Why does it annoy you so? I thought my mind was one of the things you liked most about me.” Margaery said, walking back over to the bed, aware that she was as naked as the day she was born. Tyrion’s eyes ran over her body with desire. Margaery usually did not care to compare Renly and Tyrion because their relationships were so different from each other, but she could not deny that it felt good to have a man she was abed with look at her with want. Renly didn’t look at her body. If he bedded her, he did it in the dark and he would whisper her brother’s name in her ear. It wasn’t what most women pictured bedding with their husbands to be like. Tyrion desired her and she desired him. She could attest he wasn’t small in all places.

“I was under the impression that I had managed to drive away any and all thoughts from your mind quite thoroughly.” He replied, a lecherous smile on his face. Margaery let out a laugh as she laid down in the bed, pulling the sheets over her.

“Don’t get too full of yourself, dear. You are overestimating your skills.”

“What did captivate you so? Surely not the city.”

“No. I was thinking of the children. Leland and this little one. It is early, I am only five moons along, but we should begin thinking of names soon. I was thinking a Lannister name that is common enough not to be immediately thought of as a Lannister name, Gerold perhaps. I will tell Renly the truth about the child and we’ll need to discuss what to do further from there, but names are a safe place to start.” She mused lightheartedly. Tyrion grunted but didn’t otherwise speak. Her brow furrowed at that. There it was again: he was acting strangely. If she were a fool, she’d think it was the talk of the baby. She’d get insecure and begin fawning about. She knew better. He had been acting strangely since Jaime died and if she was unobservant she would just put it down to his brother’s death, but it was more than that, she could feel it. She was not fool enough to think it was the baby, but she wasn’t above playing that part if it meant coaxing the truth out of her lover. He was going to tell her before until the Martells arrived, she’d just need to maneuver him into that position again.

“What is the matter with you? Is it me? Is it the baby? Do you not want him?” She asked, putting the right amount of vulnerability in her voice.

“That’s not what the problem is.” He denied.

“But there _is_ a problem.”

“I can’t talk about it, not with you.”

“I thought you trusted me.”

“I do trust you.”

“Not as much as Cersei though.” She replied, genuine disdain in her voice as she uttered the queen’s name. Her hatred for her was strong.

“Marge…”

“I see you and her whispering away to one another when you are able to, when she is not locked away in her rooms. Are you two best friends now?”

“We are not, nor have we ever been, friends or even just brother and sister in the conventional sense. Circumstances have pushed us together.”

“What circumstances?” Tyrion was silent and Margaery pushed herself up in frustration.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” She said, grabbing her nightgown and throwing it over her head. A part of her was genuinely frustrated that he wouldn’t tell her but mostly she was curious and she hoped he called her bluff. She got up and moved over to where her robe was thrown over a chair, keeping her back to Tyrion as she pulled it on and fixed her hair. Her hand was on the doorknob before he spoke again.

“Jaime wasn’t killed by an assassin.” He announced. Margaery paused at the door, taking a moment to quirk a smile at breaking him before his words sunk in.

“What do you mean? Who was he killed by then?”

“King Robert.” Tyrion said simply. Margaery was stumped now.

“What? Why would King Robert kill your brother?”

“Cersei.”

“Cersei? What do you…” Margaery was no fool. She didn’t take long to figure out about Jaime and Cersei. The way they acted towards one another, the way they reacted to one another. Margaery had never looked at her brothers the way she sometimes caught Cersei looking at Jaime. It was too horrifying a thing for her to want to contemplate so she never did for very long, but she had spared thoughts to the golden-headed princes and princess and remarked how like Cersei they looked and not at all like Robert, unlike Gendry.

“The children?” Margaery asked, sitting on the edge of the bed in front of him.

“In danger. Robert knows now and he wants them and Cersei dead.”

“What’s stopping him? Restraint is not a trait he cherishes, I’d have thought he would smash all of their heads in at once and damn the consequences.”

“He has greater concerns at the moment.”

“Greater concerns than this?”

“Yes. Only the one thing that could ever distract him from something like this: Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.” Margaery’s brow furrowed further at that. The two had been dead twenty-two years and their shadows still loomed heavy over King Robert. He loved Lyanna and missed her and he hated Rhaegar and wished to kill him a thousand times more and he made sure everyone knew about it. Margaery had been stuck in a room with him before when he went down memory lane over his lost love, repeating the same stories over and over again or verbally fantasizing ways he’d killed Rhaegar if given the chance again. But how could a dead woman and man stay Cersei and her children’s executions?

Then again, the Starks had to have been summoned right around the time Jaime died. Margaery had asked Sansa about the summons and she had remarked on the strangeness of it: that they were all summoned to mourn a man they didn’t know, even she and Lord Robb who were married and not available for betrothals, that King Robert summoned her bastard brother but seemed to hate him immediately. He was quiet and sullen and polite and had not been anything besides since he was here, but even Margaery caught Robert’s glares at him just as much as his longing gazes at Arya Stark. Prince Oberyn stared at Jon Snow a lot too but he was consorting with the man’s daughter, so that wasn’t strange. Ser Barristan studied him as well. He looked a lot like Lord Stark, there was no doubt of that. But Lord Stark looked a lot like his sister. And no one knew who Jon Snow’s mother was, did they? It was always passing odd that kingsguards would be guarding a teenaged Northern girl locked in a tower on the orders of a dead prince and not even allow her brother up to see her. And then Ned Stark appeared with his sister’s bones and a child and no further explanation. It seemed obvious when one thought of it enough but why think of it? What reason did Ned Stark have to lie? Except to protect a child who was his kin when he knew Robert would’ve surely killed him.

“Tyrion, Jon Snow... he isn’t a bad person. That may seem ridiculous to say, especially coming from me, but he wouldn’t… he doesn’t have a traitorous bone in his body. He has no designs for a position higher than trader. He is Sansa's brother.” Margaery found herself saying.

“Her cousin.” That was all the confirmation she needed.

“So what is meant to happen?”

“Robert hasn’t let me in on his plans but I’m sure it ends in the bastard’s death, most likely in very gruesome fashion.” Tyrion replied, his voice light and sarcastic but she could detect the strain in it.

“And the Starks?”

“They’ve committed treason. They’ve harbored a fugitive and Robert isn’t known for his mercy towards Targaryen loyalists.”

"They're a great house, the Lord Paramounts of the North, perhaps the oldest great house still in existence. If he moves against them, it could mean war." Margaery pointed out. A bitter, regretful smile found its way onto Tyrion’s lips.

"It could, you don't have to convince me of that. But it's Robert, I think he'd very much like a war." Margaery opened her mouth to speak but there was nothing else to say. She laid her head down on Tyrion’s chest, his stubby fingers running over her soft curls.

“Mayhaps you will need to keep our child’s identity secret for a while yet. Until King Robert has shuffled off to the grave at least.” Margaery nodded against him mutely and laid there quietly, allowing his fingers to soothe away her thoughts.

But they would not stay at bay forever. Come the morning light, thoughts still worried at Margaery’s brain. What should she do with this information? Should she tell anyone about it? If she did she’d need to tell the right person and there was no one she would think to tell this information to except Sansa. Sansa had learned quickly that year she fostered in Highgarden, learning at the feet of her grandmother. She was a Northern woman and still had notions of love Margaery didn't agree with but she could see the player beneath that in Sansa. She had so wanted her to marry Willas and become her sister but even if she wasn’t her family, she was still her friend. She didn’t have many true friends. She couldn’t allow one to meet their end over something like this. She wished her grandmother was here to council her but passing this information by raven was dangerous and she couldn’t get to King’s Landing from Highgarden quickly enough for Margaery’s taste, so the decision was down to her.

If she didn’t say anything Sansa could die. Her father and husband and siblings could die. Jon Snow would definitely die. If she did say something, someone could find out she knew and there’d be consequences for her. But wouldn’t there already be consequences coming her way? She had a Lannister in her womb. Another wife of a Baratheon cuckolding her husband for a Lannister. That parallel with Cersei didn’t bode well for her. It wouldn’t be the worst thing if Margaery had more friends than just in the Reach. If worst came to worst, helping save a great Northern house could work in her benefit. At least that’s what she’d tell her grandmother if asked.

The walk to Sansa’s room was made with much trepidation in her chest. When she reached Sansa’s chambers she heard giggles coming from within along with the timbre of a man’s voice. She knocked lightly and soon the door opened, Domeric smiling genial at her.

“Lady Margaery.” He greeted, bowed slightly. She gave him her best smile.

“Lord Domeric, I’ve come to call on your wife for a matter of utmost urgency.” Sansa appeared behind Domeric and her face lit up when she saw it was Margaery. It made a pang hit her in her stomach.

“Marge, come in. Is there something the matter?”

“Not as such, I just hoped to speak to you in private. Ladies’ talk.” She explained, casting a glance at Domeric.

“Oh, I’m sure Dom can find something to do then.” Sansa replied, practically shooing her husband away. He chuckled but held up his hands in surrender.

“I shall go find Robb and Jon then. Perhaps they will appreciate my company more.”

“Maybe so.” Sansa replied playfully. Her playful smile tempered as the door shut and she looked Margaery over with a calculating eye before her joviality dropped completely.

“Ladies’ talk, is it Marge?” Sansa asked curiously and warily. Margaery sighed in response.

“I need to tell you something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next POV: Sansa


	16. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa deals with the fallout of learning her father's secret.

Sansa had always loved tourneys. They weren’t popular in the North at all but when she was younger and still had a head full of songs, she would dream of attending one and of seeing all the pomp and alarum of a proper tourney. Gallant knights would trot along with poise and grace, all beautiful and chivalrous and ladies would wear perfect smiles. At the end of it, Sansa would be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty by a lovely prince and she’d live happily ever after with him. Sometimes when she thought of how she was as a child, she’d physically cringe. She was so… Southron? Silly? Immature? She was so many things that didn’t make her feel proud. Leaving the North for the first time to foster at the Reach for a year had been a transformative experience. It didn’t just open her up to relationships with Margaery and the other Tyrells but also opened her up to the tutelage and advice of one such as Olenna Tyrell. She had imparted many words of wisdom on to Sansa when she lived at Highgarden and Margaery injected her words into every letter she sent to Sansa after she returned to the North.

The words probably truly took root in her during that business with her former betrothed, Marq Piper. That was the last Sansa could say she was still a foolish girl. He had charmed her with his long blonde hair and crystal blue eyes and crooked smile. His armor was a shiny blue and white and all Sansa wore while they were betrothed was his colors. She ignored how he talked badly of the North. She ignored how he derided Jon and Arya. She ignored his taunting of Bran. She ignored his temper even and kept it to herself when he scared her. Her mother finding out about his bastard had been a blessing from the Gods.

She learned soon enough that there were things of greater import than love. Family came first always. That was why she agreed so easily to the betrothal to Domeric, even though he was nothing as she pictured her husband being. Dom wasn’t the most handsome man in a room. His armor didn't shine and gleam. His skin wasn't sun-kissed and his hair wasn’t flowing or golden. She must have surprised her parents terribly when she suggested the betrothal to them, but she had read and learned about the history of House Stark and House Bolton. It was a bloody one full of strife and betrayal. She heard her father talk about Roose Bolton before and his opinion was mixed. He thought he was loyal to him but didn’t think he would be to Robb. She also kept her ear perked for words of Lord Bolton's only legitimate child and she knew the best course would be joining their houses to remove any chance of future betrayal. Her father had been reluctant,

‘ _We'll find you someone brave and strong and gentle_ ’,

However, she had convinced him to give Dom a chance and it turned out to be a good thing. Domeric was brave and strong and gentle in his own ways, a truly good man who was not at all like the histories painted House Bolton. She did come to love him, even if she hadn’t at first.

When she was first betrothed to him, she had just started focusing more on her family than men and the betrothal was more a necessity to her, a duty she must perform for the prosperity of her house just like Wynafryd had done with Robb. She learned a lot watching Fryd on that front. But Dom rose to the occasion and integrated himself with her family effortlessly. Everyone liked him and when Sansa gave him a chance, she liked him too. Loved him easily. Married life was not what she thought it would be, but it had barely started for them. They hadn’t even gone to the Dreadfort yet before being summoned to King’s Landing where her worries grew greater and greater until now when they’ve finally reached a head thanks to Margaery’s confession.

_‘Jon isn't your brother, he’s your cousin.’_

She wanted to deny the words and a part of her did, but it would explain King Robert's behavior if he was a Targaryen by birth, or he believed Jon was. She tried to picture it in her head, but she couldn't. Whenever she pictured a Targaryen she saw the white-blonde hair and the purple eyes but Jon had the Stark look. Then again, Sansa was born with the Stark name and had the Tully look to show for it. Still, she couldn’t see it and didn’t want to think of Jon as anything other than a Stark. They had grown up together, were raised together and even when she denounced him as only being a bastard, he was still her brother even if only her half-brother. They had managed to begin getting along again as they had when she was very young before she learned what his status meant, and she got so wrapped up in pleasing her mother with her skills as a lady. She was happy to say she had four brothers, each of her relationships with them different but cherished, and now…

“Are you alright, dear wife?” Domeric said, startling her slightly as he came up behind her in his tent and hugged her from behind. She could feel the warm metal of his armor through her clothes. She couldn’t help but think it should be cold but the sun beaming down on King’s Landing prevented that. It was the first day of the tourney to honor the late Lord Hand, Jon Arryn. They’d already had the preliminary archery competitions. Arya was in the final three in the running to win along with Nymeria Sand and a man named Anguy with no surname. The archery would be completed tomorrow, the melee would also take place tomorrow. Now it was time for the first day of jousting to begin. She turned around to survey Domeric. He looked determined and ready. He was quite fetching in his gray plate armor, a pink half-cape attached to his shoulder. It didn’t have his house sigil but the cross was engraved into his chest plate, though it was hard to make out the flayed man tied to it. Domeric wasn’t proud of his sigil in the way Sansa was proud of hers. She couldn’t fault him for that.

“Are you ready for this?” Sansa asked in lieu of answering his previous question.

“As I’ll ever be. It isn’t my first tourney, don’t forget. The tourney at Winterfell is a personal favorite of mine however.” 

“You had a very good incentive to win then. And we were with friends and loved ones. It’s not so here.” Sansa pointed out, turning around to face him fully.

“I’ve a duty to show these lily-flowered boys a thing or two about the North which they so like to talk down about. That’s a fairly good incentive, though I admit not as good as seeing you smile that day I crowned you my Queen of Love and Beauty.” Sansa quirked a small smile, her worries momentarily leaving her. Dom had gone through great pains to set up a small tourney ground as a wedding present for her before they wed. The first and only tourney held at Winterfell. All of her brothers had competed and Arya too. Arya won the archery competition, Jon narrowly beat Dacey Mormont in the melee and Domeric had won the tilts in the end, knocking Waylan Manderly off his horse and presenting her with a crown of winter roses. It had been one of the happiest days she could remember, safe at home, surrounded by the Northern lords and ladies, the residents of Winter Town and her family along with the man she loved. Now they were stuck in this strange Southern land surrounded by enemies, liars and backstabbers.

“Lady has already given me her favor.” Domeric began, pointing to his cheek still glistening with a bit of slobber. Sansa scrunched her nose in slight disgust before wiping it off with her handkerchief.

“Can I count on a favor from you?” He continued as she cleaned his face.

“I don’t know, I hadn’t planned on it.”

“You wound me, wife. How can I hope to win without your support?” Sansa rolled her eyes at the dramatics before unwinding a grey ribbon from her hair and tying it to his wrist.

“There. Happy?”

“More than you know.” He replied, pressing a small kiss to her lips. She accepted it before waving him to the exit. He paused as he reached the tent’s flap.

“Are you sure you're okay? It didn’t escape my notice that you didn’t answer the question earlier.” Sansa gave him a reassuring smile.

“I am fine.” He narrowed his eyes at her in response.

“I’m guessing it wasn’t just girl talk with Margaery.” Sansa took a moment to reflect on how well her husband knew her. It should scare her, but it didn’t.

“No, it wasn’t but it wouldn’t do to talk about it here or now. It’s something I need to discuss with my father.” Domeric nodded and accepted that answer before holding out a hand to her. She allowed him to lead her back towards the tourney grounds. She took in all the men around her. Some wore plate armor, others wore chainmail. Some wore helms or half-helms. They varied in age but there were some key standouts. Ser Loras was there in his ornate gleaming armor. Lord Renly’s armor was just as ornate and his helm had short antlers attached. There were knights from the Vale. She noticed the sigils of House Royce, House Redfort and House Corbray but none from House Arryn curiously enough, nor from House Lannister though other Westerland houses were there. Her attention was drawn to the man with a black manticore on a red field.

“Is that…” Sansa began.

“Ser Amory Lorch, that dishonorable childslayer.” Domeric confirmed, disgust in his voice. Everyone knew about how he killed the last Lord Tarbeck, a three-year-old boy, during the Reyne-Tarbeck rebellion and there was what he did to Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. He killed her in gruesome fashion. Suddenly she was glad that Jon was not riding in the joust. She would probably have a heart attack to see him pit against Amory Lorch like his… like the others were.

“Do not fret, wife. If I come up against him I will be sure to hit him hard.” Domeric reassured her, picking up on her disquietude. Sansa gave him a weaker smile than she would’ve liked before pressing a kiss to his cheek and retreating to the stands where her family waited. Her father was forced to sit in the box with the king and the queen and the rest of the royal family so it was just her siblings waiting for her. She took the free seat between Rickon and Jon.

“Where’ve you been? Did you see Arya shooting?” Bran asked her as she sat.

“I was seeing Dom off. I did see her, she did excellently.” Arya shrugged from Jon’s other side.

“I won’t win, that Anguy man will, but at least I’m in the final three so I’ll get some winnings for my efforts and recognition besides.” She replied. Sansa had noticed the faces of people in the crowds at seeing the final three of the archery competition. It was much more inclusive than the joust or the melee was but still some sneered at two women, one being a bastard, and a commoner being the final three.

“I’m sure you’ll do admirably tomorrow either way.” Sansa said absentmindedly, glancing towards the box where her father sat. She was worried he might say or do something but then again, maybe she wasn’t giving him enough credit. He had kept this secret for over twenty years.

Over twenty years.

Sansa suddenly felt a rush of anger. He had kept something so huge a secret from all of them and brought them here to this place knowing the truth. If she were thinking more levelheaded at the moment she’d be able to see some merits in his actions but at the moment she was just angry.

Her father must’ve felt her gaze and he turned to look down at her. He gave her a small smile. She did not know what her face betrayed, but his smile dropped swiftly and was replaced by an inquisitive frown.

“You’re going to miss Domeric.” She heard beside her. She turned to see Jon looking at her. She glanced at the field. Domeric was getting ready to face off against a knight of House Marbrand.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked her, some concern on his face. Sansa nodded.

“Yes, of course. It’s just the heat. I am unused to it still. Highgarden was not as dry or hot and it’s been years since I was there.” Jon didn’t seem to believe her but let it go and turned back to the joust. Sansa did as well but couldn’t help herself but to snatch Jon’s hand and hold it in hers. She could feel him staring at the side of her face but she ignored it in favor of watching Domeric ride towards the Marbrand knight. She let herself smile as Dom effortlessly knocked him off his horse but she remained tense for the rest of the day watching the tilts. She didn’t let go of Jon’s hand the whole time.

**~*~*~**

The joust lasted hours until nightfall came and it was disbanded for the first night of feasting. Sansa had no appetite for it. Her father was sat up at the high table with the king whilst Sansa and the rest of the family sat at one of the tables closer to it. Margaery was also sat at the high table next to her husband, Lord Renly. Their eyes met briefly and Sansa could see the concern in Margaery’s eyes and tried to ignore it. Her eyes switched to the queen sat beside the king. Her eyes scanned over her three youngest children. She had found it passing strange that the younger of the children all be blonde haired when Gendry along with the king’s bastards all had the standard Baratheon look of dark hair and blue eyes. The twins in Princess Myrcella’s service had a mother of Lannister blood who was said to have the golden look of Lannister and her children had the Baratheon look. The younger children looked just like Cersei but they had enough features in common with Gendry that it must’ve seemed muddled and not so obvious. Afterall, why would anyone want to believe that the queen carried on an illicit affair with her twin brother and produced three bastards born of their incest? Thank the gods the heir to the throne was not a bastard born of their misdeeds, least of all Joffrey. He’d have run the kingdoms into the ground, the idiot. His true parentage helped to explain his madness. It didn’t seem like Myrcella or Tommen had the taint.

 _Jon doesn’t either._ A part of her brain whispered. She tried to push it away but it kept occurring to her that years of incest, marriage to brother and sister and other close family members, did exist in Jon’s blood. His biological paternal grandparents were siblings and their parents before them were siblings as well. His grandfather was the Mad King who killed their grandfather Rickard and uncle Brandon in gruesome and cruel fashion. And Prince Rhaegar...

Did he kidnap Jon's mother and rape her? Did she go willingly with him? But then why would no word of her choice have been sent to anyone to prevent the war? And he was married at the time with an heir as well as a daughter, so why would he have run off with her aunt if it was by choice? Sansa couldn't reconcile so cruel and vile an action as rape to have produced a man like Jon. And if it were so, then he was nothing like his birth father and the world was better for it.

 _Jon isn’t that at all._ Sansa reassured herself. Jon didn’t have a cruel or insane or evil bone in his body. He was good, almost to a fault. He was more Stark than anything else. He was more Stark than she had been growing up. Now it was that other blood that was threatening his life and she still wasn’t sure what to do. Her eyes flickered to her father who was conversing with the king, a frown on his face. She was trying to read their lips with not much success, the conversation of the table she occupied little more than background noise to her until her name was mentioned.

“…and I think for a personal sigil for yourself, dear, perhaps a pig. A large pink pig with three eyes. It would suit you well, don’t you think Sansa?”

“Sure.” She said absentmindedly, not taking in what Domeric said until a moment later.

“Wait, what?” She asked in confusion. Domeric looked at her with an indulgent smile while Rickon, Arya, Bran and Robb laughed after her.

“Glad to see you’ve finally joined us once more.” Dom teased, though there was concern in his eyes.

“Are you well? You’ve been acting strangely all day.” Jon said, watching her carefully.

“Everything’s fine.” Jon’s gaze on her didn’t waver. Sansa sighed in response.

“I’m fine, really. I’m just tired. I think I need some rest. It’s been a long day.” Now all her siblings looked worry.

“Stop fretting over me. I’m going to go upstairs and rest.”

“Do you need me to come with you?” Arya asked.

“No, you all stay down here and enjoy the feast.” Sansa said, waving them off with a practiced smile. She wore it all the way out of the great hall, nodding her head in greeting to various tables until she was finally free. She leaned heavily on the door for but a moment before she began making her way slowly to her chambers. She wasn’t very far from the hall when she heard footsteps approaching her from behind. She tensed up a little and glanced behind her but it was only her father approaching her. She only relaxed a fraction.

“Are you alright?” He asked. She was getting a little annoyed with the question or maybe she was just annoyed with him.

“I’m fine.” She answered, the answer more of a habit than anything else. The look her father gave her confirmed he figured as much.

“You been looking at me all day like you did when you were a girl and I took one of your favorite dolls away. What is the matter? What have I done now?” He seemed genuinely concerned and clueless about what the root of her anger could be and irrationally it made Sansa angrier.

“You’ve done a great deal that adversely affects our family, more than I feel comfortable discussing with you in this hallway or indeed in this castle at all.” She answered, some of her anger bleeding through. He looked at her with more confusion and Sansa sighed with frustration before taking his hand and leading him away. This place was full of spies and ears were everywhere. She stepped outside with her father and down the stairs towards the stables that were reserved for their direwolves. The horses had been moved out of them and to another and so only the direwolves resided there. They hardly stayed there but with new guests for the tourney arriving, the king requested they be locked away at night and weren’t to be allowed out during feasts for the safety of guests and their family had reluctantly agreed. She took her father there so they could talk. She didn’t think any of Varys’ little birds would brave a wolves’ den and the direwolves would sense if one of them were there and wouldn’t be quiet about it. They were all mostly asleep except for Shaggydog who impatiently paced around in his pen.

“Are we alone, Shaggy?” Sansa asked the wolf. He tilted his head at her for a moment, before sniffing the air and then going back to his impatient pacing, unconcerned with Sansa or her father. He didn’t seem agitated by an intruder so much as he was at being locked up so she was sure they were safe.

“Why all this secrecy, Sansa?”

 _You’d know all about secrecy._ She thought but didn’t say it.

“Speaking of secrets, I know yours and so does the king.” Her father stiffened before speaking.

“What secret?”

“The only secret I assume you have that was worth throwing your honor away for. The secret about Jon. I know and the king knows, among others.” Her father looked struck at her words before shaking his head in denial.

“That’s… that’s not possible. No one could know. No one else was there.”

“That hardly matters. All anyone had to do was start asking questions and they did. Someone started asking questions and they found answers and they took the answers they found to Cersei Lannister. She told the king to save herself when he found out she had been conducting an affair with Ser Jaime that resulted in Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen.”

“She was...”

“That doesn’t matter now, what matters is our family and the danger we’re in. We need to leave this place as soon as possible. The king will kill Jon.”

“I know, I know. I… I hoped after all this time that would’ve changed, but the way he talks about Daenerys Targaryen makes it clear he still wishes anyone with their blood was wiped off the face of the Earth.” Her father rubbed a hand over his beard silently, seemingly contemplating what to do next.

“Alright, have you told anyone about this?”

“Did I tell Jon, you mean?” Sansa shot back. Her father cut his eyes at her reproachfully.

“I mean anyone.”

“No, I didn’t say anything. Margaery knows though, she’s the one that told me. Lord Tyrion knows. The queen and the king. Perhaps the Small Council. I don’t know if anyone else does.” Sansa silently wondered if the crown prince knew. He and Arya had been noticeably close. If he knew about the plot against their brother, Arya’s favorite sibling, Sansa didn’t know what Arya would do.

“That’s more people than I ever wanted to know.” Her father mumbled to himself.

“Why?” Sansa couldn’t help but ask.

“Why did you never tell any of us? Why didn’t you at least tell Jon?”

“You don’t understand.” Her father answered.

“You’re right, I don’t understand. He’s spent his entire life wondering about his mother, who she is, if she ever loved him and this whole time she’s been in the crypts. You’ve watched Mother scorn him for being your bastard and he’s not even your biological son. Did Mother know? Was it some ruse to sell your lie or did you lie to her too? Is Jon Prince Rhaegar’s rapespawn? Is that why you said nothing?”

“No. Lyanna wasn’t… she wasn’t raped. She wasn’t taken. Anyone who really knew her would know she wouldn't have been taken alive. She would’ve fought to her death if any tried to steal her away, such was her ferocity.” Ned finally said, sadness and fondness for his dead sister all rolled into one.

“So, the Rebellion was based on a lie?” Sansa asked, dismayed. It felt like the entire construct of the world she built around her was crumbling and she couldn’t make sense of it. Her father stared hard at her at the statement.

“No, it wasn’t. Aerys Targaryen was mad. He murdered my father and brother. He would’ve murdered me and Benjen and probably Lyanna too and any other Northman he could get his hands on. He would’ve seen the Seven Kingdoms burned, so I fought. I fought because I wanted to stop him and because I wanted my sister back. I didn’t know she wasn’t taken because she never said anything about leaving with Rhaegar, not to me. I knew she didn’t want to marry Robert but how was I to assume that her not wanting to marry a man she thought would father bastards on her would result in her running away with a married man with two living children? It didn’t make sense so I didn’t think it, but when I found Lyanna she said it was so. She said she left with him of her own volition. She regretted it but she made me promise that I would protect Jon and so I have. I’ve told lies and I’ve compromised on more than I would like and I will answer to the Gods for that, but they were necessary lies. They were lies that kept him alive and safe, even if not all the time happy. I did what I could with what I had at the time. That's what I've tried to do with all of my children. There were mistakes and I'm not proud of all I've done but I won’t be scolded by my own daughter for things I couldn’t possibly even begin to explain to you in a way you would understand, not until you have children of your own and not unless you were there back then to see how it was. But look me in the eye and tell me if Arya was laying on her deathbed, having made mistakes in her life, yes, but still being your sister and begging you to protect her only child no matter the cost, that you would do anything less than what you promised her that you would do.”

“I would do it. Of course I would. I would do a great many things for my family.” Sansa replied quietly, feeling like a chastised child more than she would like. She quickly roused herself and continued.

“What happened then isn’t important right now, what’s important is getting out of this city alive. We need to leave. You need to tell the king we need to leave. If he hasn’t done anything yet, that means he wants it to be a spectacle. He’s probably saving it for the last day of the tourney. We need to be out of this city before then.”

“I will send you all on ahead of me.”

“What do you mean? You have to come with us, you committed treason, you can’t stay here.”

“It is as you said, he wants me to be his Hand and he won’t take no for an answer.”

“Father, I said—”

“He wants Arya.” That stopped Sansa up.

“She is just like Lyanna to him. She’s as wild and willful and looks like her besides that, so much so that the differences don’t matter much to him. I fear if I decline, he’ll take Arya and I can't let him do that. So you need to go ahead with the others, take Jon and Arya with you and don't stop until you reach the safety of Winterfell where you can tell your mother what has been happening and move forward from there. We’ll need to get you all out in the utmost secrecy.”

“How are we going to get out of this city in secrecy? The king has eyes and ears everywhere, if we make a move…”

“We’ll have to do it cautiously, quietly.”

“We need allies. Supporters among the court, Targaryen supporters who can help us smuggle ourselves out of the city.” Her father looked pained and reluctant. Sansa moved forward and gripped his arm.

“You need to come with us. You understand that the king isn’t your friend anymore, right? He’s our enemy. He will see Jon dead, he may even see you dead for harboring him and all of us dead for supporting and protecting him because when the others learn the truth they won’t turn their backs on him. King Robert can’t be trusted anymore, can’t be excused anymore, can’t be thought of in fond memory. This is pure calculation now, this about survival now not sentiment. He isn’t your friend. Not anymore.” Sansa counseled, not feeling badly in the least for the dose of reality.

“You are right. We do what we need to do to leave this place. You have your avenues and I will have mine. Work them, I will work mine and we will leave this place.” Her father placed a kiss on her temple and made for the exit. Sansa stopped him before he could leave.

“And Father?”

“When we leave this place, you must tell Jon the truth about his mother. You must tell everyone the truth. They need to know. It's time they knew. We will be upset with you for a while but we will all move on and we will continue to protect one another as we’ve been doing, as we’ve always done, but we can’t do that if we’re not all on the same page and we won’t be without the truth.” Her father didn’t answer her. She heard the door open and shut.

Once Sansa was sure he was gone, she allowed herself to let go. She gripped onto the stable door beside her, her body feeling weak and burdened as she felt tears come to her eyes. She wasn’t sure who they were for. Maybe they were for Jon, who spent his life believing he was one thing and soon would find out he was another. Maybe it was for her father, who perpetuated a lie for twenty+ years for the love he bared for his sister. Maybe it was for her Aunt Lyanna, who had made mistakes but so greatly loved her son and wanted him to be safe above all else on her deathbed. Maybe it was for her family, who had just had their foundation rocked and some of its pillars crumble and everyone else didn’t even know about the ruin that was potentially on the horizon for them all. She felt Shaggy lick her fingers in comfort as a small sob left her. Sansa took a moment to let the tears fall before standing up straight and wiping them away.

She would not waste time weeping about this. She was a wolf and there was a threat to her pack, she would do what she needed to do to make sure they all survived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not completely satisfied with this chapter because I found it harder than I thought it would be to capture the voice of Sansa as I picture her to be in this world. She isn't the brat she was in her youth but she also didn't go through the hardships she does in canon. She grew up out of her naivety naturally and through the tutelage of the Tyrell women. She is a player and can be manipulative but is also a she-wolf who wants to protect her pack. My problem laid in trying to capture the conversation between she and Ned without it getting out of hand in how a daughter should talk to their father while also giving Ned a dose of reality about the danger of their situation and giving you guys a better idea of Sansa in this universe and her relationship with her family.  
> I hope I managed to accomplish at least some of that.  
> Next Chapter POV: Gendry


	17. Gendry V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry is faced with a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive!  
> Apologies for the delay. I had to focus on school and this story unfortunately took a backseat. I will try to keep updating, though I can't promise regular updates as I am working two jobs at the moment but I do have an outline for the story, I just need to write out the chapters but I haven't abandoned this story.  
> Thank you to everyone for the support and understanding, I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
> 

Gendry remembered his first melee. He had been ten and five and his mother had protested fiercely his joining the melee. It was unfit, she said, to have the crown prince fighting in such a disorganized display. He could be hurt or killed but his father had dismissed her.

 _‘I’ve fought in plenty of melees before. How else is the boy to grow harder and test his mettle? He’ll fight and he’ll win if he knows what’s good for him.’_ His father had said.

So, Gendry had fought and he had won. The victory had felt amazing at the time but looking back on it, it was no hard task to accomplish. That tourney hadn’t been an overly large one. Just a small one made up of the nobility already living at the Red Keep in celebration of his mother’s nameday. His Uncle Jaime had won the joust and crowned his mother Queen of Love and Beauty.

In hindsight, he remembered the glint in his mother’s eye when Jaime presented her with the crown of gold poms and wildflowers that Gendry had taken as joy then but now knew it was probably something else. He pushed that away though, he didn’t want to think about that: his mother consorting with her brother, but it wouldn’t leave his mind. He thought of it every time he saw Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen. Every time Joff did something that bordered insanity, he thought of the effects that incestuous relationships could have on the mind. He wondered if some years down the line insanity would addle Myrcie and Tom’s brains too but some Targaryens weren’t mad. Then again, they say the Mad King’s insanity grew greater as the years went on and he got older so who knew what might happen years from now to his younger siblings. Again, Gendry was loath to dwell on such possibilities.

But not thinking of that just made him think of Arya. He couldn’t rid himself of the memories of her body pressed against his, of her grunts of exertion as they sparred against one another. He couldn’t unsee the look in her eye, the desire when she stared at him or the feel of her lips moving against his. He had wanted her so badly. He didn’t want to pull away, he wanted to forget everything that existed outside of them and only focus on them. But what sort of a man would he be if he had done that? He couldn’t in good conscious allow himself to go any further with Arya or allow her to go any further with him without her knowing the truth of the circumstances as they were behind the scenes in King’s Landing. If they had continued to kiss, if they had done more than that, she would hate him if the truth came out. (When the truth came out, because he was certain his father hadn’t forgotten and would make Jon Snow pay for his biological father’s crimes). Gendry didn’t want her to hate him, he wanted to go back to before and stay in the moment when her lips touched his, but he couldn’t afford that. Besides, Arya had gone right back to avoiding him and he couldn’t blame her. He didn’t know how to explain to her why he turned away without explaining about Jon and that would put his own siblings in danger.

He sighed as he secured his armor. It was now the second day of the tourney and the melee was starting soon. Gendry had already been eliminated from the joust, thrown from his horse by Elia the day before. He had never been the strongest jouster anyway.

He observed himself in the mirror with detachment. There was a yellow ribbon attached to his arm securely so no one could yank it off. Myrcella had given him the favor yesterday. She was put out that there was no favor from Arya as well and Gendry didn’t bother explaining to her why that was because he never told her about the truth of her parentage. If it were up to him, she would never know. She didn’t need to know, she needed to be protected. Myrcella probably wouldn’t thank him for the sentiments if she knew the truth but her protection was most important, hers and Tom’s and their mother’s and even Joffrey’s. He didn’t have much choice in his madness and their mother was the one who indulged it and fed it but at least it wasn’t something that had so consumed Joff that he wasn’t controllable, at least to Gendry. Joffrey was cruel and mean and an idiot but still his brother, so Gendry had to look out for him too even if he wouldn’t do the same.

Arya must understand that, right? She would do the same for her family.

 _And that is exactly why she will never forgive me._ He sighed to himself once more before grabbing his helm in frustration and stomping out of his tent. Staying inside debating himself was doing him no good and he felt a need to hit something or someone.

The melee held well over 100 competitors, all fighting one another in a free-for-all win. Gendry was confident but wasn’t sure he’d be able to coast to victory. Brienne of Tarth was there, and she won the last melee. Loras Tyrell was also fighting and, despite rumors about him, he was a skilled fighter. Also, among the fighters were some of Gendry’s cousins from his mother’s side and other hedge knights as well as some notable lords like Lord Beric Donddarion and young Lord Edric Dayne but Ser Loras and Lady Brienne would be his greatest competition. Gendry had enough pent up emotion to want to let it out on someone, both a detriment and a benefit.

As he entered the fighting grounds, he noticed the last of the stands from the archery competitions were still being taken away. A commoner named Anguy had won, earning himself 100 gold dragons. Arya came in second place, earning herself 50 gold dragons and Nymeria Sand came third and received 25 gold dragons. Gendry internally winced at the prizes. They could’ve done without the loss but there was little for it now.

The fighters were all gearing up and Gendry joined them, listening almost impatiently as the rules of the melee were said aloud as was the custom. He knew the rules by heart and so he let his eyes roam the crowd. His father was sat in the royal box with an unfazed expression and a wine goblet in his hand. His mother also had a goblet handy and a sour look on her face. The bruises had all faded but the memory of her beaten and battered would never leave him. Joffrey looked bored more than anything else. Tommen was engaging with Ned Stark who sat on the king’s left-hand side. Myrcella was smiling encouragingly at him and he returned the smile before letting his eyes wander more. He knew who he was looking for. He found her soon enough. She sat between her older brothers, Jon Snow and Robb Stark, the rest of her siblings close by and surrounding her. She wasn’t focused on him but was talking to Rickon past Robb Stark. She must’ve felt his eyes on her because she turned and looked towards the melee grounds. Gendry gave her a tentative smile. She shot a hard glare at him in response before turning back to her conversation with her younger brother. Gendry pushed the disappointment away. He had a battle to fight and he needed to focus. He pulled his helm on just as his uncle Renly was nearing the end of the overview of the melee.

When the melee began, he focused on not wasting too much of his energy on the men who would not last long. Most of them fell with just a swing of his hammer to be replaced by another young man seeking glory by besting the crown prince. They wouldn’t succeed. He put all his focus into the fighting, in watching the men and boys around him try to fell him, try to slip past his defenses and fail. His world narrowed to the next fight, the next confrontation but he was careful to pull his punches, to injure and not maim or kill with his hammer. It felt good, familiar to swing and defend, to fight and strike. He needed the familiarity; his life had been sorely missing it.

Soon there was naught but Gendry, Loras and Brienne as he thought there would be. There was sweat dripping into his eyes despite his best efforts to keep his exertion at bay. It didn’t help that compared to his dull brown armor and Lady Brienne’s dark blue armor, Loras had on an armor that was rose gold, ornate and shiny even with mud covering it and it reflected the sun into Gendry’s eyes more than once but he shook his head clear and did his best to see past the glaring light to go after Loras. Lady Brienne seemed to see the danger in his armor and went after him as well. With her longsword and his hammer attacking him from both sides, the knight of flowers wouldn’t last long. Loras was fighting them off admirably though. He had always had some tricks up his sleeve so when Lady Brienne went to deliver a decisive blow Gendry was not expecting for Ser Loras to sweep Gendry’s foot from underneath him, sending him falling awkwardly to the ground on his side. He was not sure of what Ser Loras did after that but not too long later, Lady Brienne landed on top of him. He felt something strain painfully in his shoulder. The Lady was off soon after and he heard the clanging of swords and then Ser Loras was sprawled out on the floor beside him, seemingly knocked out.

The arena was silent, and Gendry wondered why before realizing it was quiet for him, he hadn’t gotten up. Lady Brienne pushed Loras’ unconscious body to the side so she could treat with him.

“Are you alright? Should I get the maester?”

“It’s my shoulder. I don’t need to be escorted off the field for that.” She nodded in response before helping him to turn over on his back and then sit up. He stood up carefully, feeling twangs of pain in his shoulder all the while. He must’ve pulled a muscle but when he stood he took Lady Brienne’s hand in his and raised it high.

“Your melee champion, Lady Brienne of Tarth.” He announced. The crowd took the hint and began cheering for her. The cheers were louder at the commoners' stands but everyone cheered nonetheless. He could see Arya staring at the two of them with conflicting emotions on her face, but his shoulder was demanding his attentions.

“You should go get your earnings.” He told the tall woman. Lady Brienne glanced back at Ser Loras before Gendry shook his head.

“He’ll wake eventually.” He decided before walking off the field, so she could get her shine. He signaled Grand Maester Pycelle to follow him as he made his way to his tent, a hand on his shoulder. The grand maester was blessedly quick with his assessment. A pulled muscle in his shoulder he confirmed. He wrapped the affected area and gave him a salve and instructions on care before leaving the tent.

Gendry reveled in the quiet for a moment. His mind was no longer racing as much, no longer clouded by the worries that plagued him for the past month and then some. He didn’t let his mind wander to anything, not to his family or to Arya or any of his duties or responsibilities or the dull ache from his injury. He just focused on being.

“Are you meditating?” His eyes popped open and he turned to see Arya standing in the entrance of the tent. She was the last person he was expecting to see here.

“Am I doing what?”

“Meditating. I learned all about it in the Free Cities when I went there with Jon. A girl I met in Volantis was from Yi Ti. They have a very specific kind of meditation, but any meditation is about finding your center, achieving calmness, balance and all that. You just looked like you were meditating just then.” Gendry stared at her with some confusion as she rambled on.

“No, I was just… trying not to think. What are you doing here?” Arya bristled a little at the question.

“I was just coming to see if you were okay. I’m not staying long. You seem to be in a good mood now, who can tell where you’ll be in a minute or two?” Gendry winced a little. He deserved that.

“I’m not—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation. You didn’t want to kiss me, whatever, I’ll get over it. Just wanted to make sure you’re not dying. I couldn’t handle the thought of Joffrey being heir to the throne.”

“I’m not dying. It’s just a strained muscle.”

“Oh, well… good.” They were silent for a while, neither sure what to say. It struck Gendry that he was sitting in his tent shirtless but for the wrap on his shoulder and Arya seemed to realize it too because her eyes briefly went to his chest before she blushed ever so slightly. He watched annoyance enter her gaze and then she abruptly turned to leave. Before she could go, the tent flap opened and Gendry’s mother walked in with Ser Osmund Kettleblack. Gendry stood up as his mother stared down at the shorter girl with disdain.

“You’re not the maester they’ve chosen to care for my son, I hope.” His mother said, sarcasm and scorn dripping from every word. Arya glanced back at Gendry before answering.

“No, Your Grace. I just wanted to see about the prince’s health. Now that I have I was just leaving.” She said, giving his mother a short bow before walking around her and leaving. Cersei watched her go before she turned to look at him with a calculating eye.

"Why was that rabble in your tent?" Gendry bristled a little at the insult but didn't let on to his mother, it would just cause more of a problem.

"It's as she said, she was inquiring for my health."

"And you're close enough that she must inquire for your health?" Gendry frowned in response.

"You told me to spend time with her and I have been. We're friends." Cersei scoffed lightly.

"Wait outside while I talk sense to my son." She ordered Kettleblack. The knight nodded before walking out of the tent to stand guard, even though Gendry knew his father didn't want his mother alone with him. She walked up close to him. She examined his naked shoulder with gentle fingers before grabbing his chin softly and forcing him to look into her eyes. His mother had always been anomalous to him. She could be soft one moment and cruel the next, caring and then apathetic in an instant, warm to her children and cold to everyone else. He could never pin down her moods and he couldn't guess the depth of darkness that might reside in her any more than he suspected he could guess the depths of love in her. And there was love in her eyes now when she looked at him, love but also something else, something like pity but not quite.

"My dear boy. You're sweet and nice and friendly. You've always been those things and I can't understand where they come from, your goodness and Myrcella's and Tommen's. Joffrey, I understand, but you three? I don't know. If I hadn't labored with you, I would scarcely believe you to be mine." Cersei admitted, a hand stroking his cheek.

"But this isn't a time for goodness or for your gentle heart. She isn't your friend, none of the Starks are your friends. No one in this castle is your friend. No one in this city is your friend. No one in this region, no one in this country, no one on this continent is your friend. Not one person in this world. All they are is other, which makes them fundamentally not us and anyone who isn't us is an enemy. If you want to survive, if you want us to survive, all of us, you need to start thinking that way."

"If everyone thought that way, we'd all be dead. An alliance, friendship, that is what's saving Myrcella. That's what will keep you and the others safe when you leave."

"Sacrificing the Starks is what's keeping us alive. Robert's obsession with Lyanna and Rhaegar is what's keeping us alive.  Lord Stark and his little mongrels will live, the bastard will die, and you'll be safer for it. He may be a bastard, but he has Targaryen blood, he could challenge your reign one day. It's better for all of us. You need to be careful or you'll find yourself in a very hard place to get out of and I won't be able to help you." Gendry stared up at her, his conflict apparently showing on his face from the half-amused and half-disdainful tilt of his mother's lips.

"I understand. We don't get to choose who we love." Gendry gave her a startled look.

"I don't love—"

"We don't get to choose who we have feelings for or who we connect with." His mother corrected, shushing his protests.

"But circumstances and people will always be who and what they are. There are things more important than matters of the heart. If I ever had to go back and choose again between Jaime dying in that room or any of my children, including you, it wouldn't be a choice. I'd choose him to die every time. That's the choice you make between love and family. Even the ever-honorable Ned Stark would agree. By all accounts he and his wife love one another, and yet he has let her believe for over twenty years that he has a bastard son in order to protect his family, to protect the boy he called son. Such are the choices one has to make in their life and now it is your turn. I expect you'll choose correctly." Cersei gave him one last look before she swept out of the tent and left him alone.

**~*~*~**

Gendry would've liked to enjoy the festivities following the melee that same night but he couldn't. His mother’s words and her implications kept playing in his head on a loop. He also couldn't stop thinking of Arya, of her lips on his and her body pressed against his, her wild laughter, her hair blowing in the wind as she took off on her horse, her angry and betrayed look when he broke their kiss and rejected her. He had never felt so much conflict in his life before. He almost wished he never met her, that he never found out about his mother and uncle. It used to all be so easy. His parents hated one another but they all managed. His biggest issue then was curbing Joffrey’s nature to protect others. He used to have some kind of plan or vision for his life. He would be king one day. Myrcella would be happy at Sunspear with Trystane. He wouldn’t stop Tommen from going to the citadel to learn and become a maester if that was his will as Gendry suspected it was. He knew he would never send Joffrey away, he couldn’t. For all his brother annoyed him with his cruelty and brattiness, he could never send him into the world alone. He wouldn't survive. Gendry would’ve married some highborn lady he didn’t know and if he was lucky they would grow to respect one another and perhaps be friends, maybe even have some love for one another. His mother would do as she liked after his father’s death, stay in King's Landing or go back to Casterly Rock or elsewhere if she wanted. Now everything was in flux and Arya made things so much more complicated. He felt things with her that were stronger than anything else he’d felt before and he felt unsure what his next step should be.

He couldn’t remain in the great hall feasting with everyone else, with his family and the Starks, and not the run the risk of sickness so he didn’t stay. He left the castle entirely and went into the lower towns where they were having their own celebrations. It was barely a conscious decision of his to enter the inn where Hot Pie worked. Hot Pie noticed him immediately when he entered.

“There you are! I was wondering when you were going to show up, what with your lady here n’ all.” Gendry gave him a confused look before looking to where he pointed. Arya was sitting at a table with Alayaya. She hadn’t been at the feast and Gendry hadn’t bother questioning it, mostly because he was too worried and didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hot Pie called over to the two girls and they looked up. Yaya waved happily at him. Arya’s mouth formed a thin line but she didn’t otherwise react when he slowly approached the table, feeling like he was on his way to a death march.

“We heard about the tourney. You are not too badly hurt, I hope.” Yaya said as he sat down.

“No, I’ll survive.”

“What is that Brienne of Tarth like? I heard she is as large as that brute, the Mountain, and as strong as the Hound.” She continued.

“She’s tall and strong.” Gendry answered shortly, keeping his eyes down and away from Arya as he motioned for a drink from Hot Pie.

“She was amazing. Ser Loras was the one to knock Gendry down, though I suspect he would’ve been worse off if she got her hands on him. Would’ve been entertaining though.” There was something in Arya’s voice that made him look up at her. She had a condescending look in her eye. Not worried about him anymore but still upset then. Yaya looked between them, trying to gauge what the problem was. Arya seemed to notice her gaze as well as she rolled her eyes and got up, mumbling something about ordering at the bar. Yaya watched her walk away before turning her gaze to Gendry.

"I am sensing tension, and it isn't the sexual kind like it was before."

"Before?"

"What happened?" Yaya pressed, ignoring his question. Gendry shrugged in response but Yaya's eyes stayed firm on him.

"Circumstances and people will always be who and what they are." He replied bitterly, echoing his mother's words. Yaya's gaze turned concerned now.

"My Prince—"

"Don't."

"I was only going to say that whatever these... circumstances are, she clearly doesn't know them as well as you do. It is a difficult position to be in, to be left alone in the dark by the one you are attracted to, someone you trust, only to have that darkness grip you in its horrible palm before you ever knew it was coming for you in the first place. I know from experience what it can wroth." She said, her arms wrapped around her stomach and her fingers twitching towards her back where the whip marks from his grandfather's attack on her lay. He didn't know if his Uncle Tyrion's relationship with Alayaya was any more or less what it ever was with any whores except that he visited her frequently and talked to her outside of the bedroom enough to gather attention and bring Tywin's particular brand of discipline down on them both. Alayaya had been innocent in the non-verbal war waged between father and son and yet she had been the one to suffer for it. The parallels with Arya were not lost on Gendry. He didn't want her to end up hurt the way Yaya had, for her to be blindsided by outside forces when he could've warned her, could've helped her, could've saved her but he couldn't betray his siblings and mother either... except they had a plan, they would be safe, Arya wouldn't. Then again, they wouldn't be safe without Arya being in danger. Gendry had no idea what to do. Arya came back to the table just then.

"Apparently the inn's fresh out of black beer which signals my time to go. I'd better get back to the castle before someone starts looking for me. We'll catch up another time Alayaya, yeah?" Yaya nodded in response and stood up to hug her. She whispered something in Arya's ear that Gendry couldn't hear but it made the shorter girl stiffen and flick her eyes over to him briefly. Arya didn't glance at him again as she walked out of the inn.

"Why are you still here?" Yaya asked as Arya left.

"Go after her. Do not let her walk to the Keep alone. And fix whatever the problem is between you two. You are my friend and I like her a lot, I do not like this climate you two find yourselves in. Go on after her." Gendry would point out that he was a prince and couldn't be ordered around by her if he wasn't so fed up with this situation and didn't want to go after Arya in the first place.

Arya glanced back at him with annoyance when she saw him leave the inn after her and begin following her.

“Don’t you have something to do that doesn’t involve you being in my presence right now?” She asked curtly.

“I’m going back to the castle anyway. They'll worry if the crown prince disappears for too long.”

“If you were just going to walk to the inn, stay for two minutes and then leave, why did you come in the first place?” Gendry sighed with frustration at her shortness and anger even though he knew it was fully justified.

“I’m walking you back to the castle, can’t I just do that?”

“I’ll probably be safer taking my chances alone, what with your mood swings and all.”

“You’re not exactly stable yourself. Earlier you weren’t nearly as upset and now—”

“Earlier I was making sure you hadn’t died or lost your arm. You didn’t.” Gendry opened his mouth to speak, maybe to defend himself, but he stopped.

“What? Nothing else to say?” Arya asked abrasively, rounding on him as they turned onto the Street of Steel. The blacksmiths still worked away despite the celebrations and the tourney nearly over. They got an influx of orders thanks to the tourney and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of smelting steel and heated metal. You could taste it in the air. It tasted foul on his tongue and sent a rush to his head that wasn’t entirely comfortable.

“It doesn’t exactly seem like you want to hear anything I have to say at the moment.” Gendry pointed out.

“I gave you a chance. I asked you what the problem was after you pushed me away and you didn’t have anything to say. No, actually you said you couldn’t kiss me for some reason and then you brought up your father and then went silent on me.”

“I told you it’s complicated.”

“That sounds like the thing people say when they want to get out of actually explaining themselves.”

“I’m saying it because it is complicated.”

“I’m not a little girl. You think I’m going to fall apart over some rejection? But I know I wasn’t wrong reading you, you wanted to kiss me just as much as I wanted to kiss you.”

“Of course I did.” Gendry blurted out before thinking about it. Arya seemed taken aback before the anger came back.

“Then why did you pull away?”

“Because…”

“Gendry?” He shook his head, looking away from her as the dull ache in his head began to throb at his temple. It matched the growing pain from the shoulder injury he had sustained earlier. Arya’s eyes hardened as she stared at him wallowing in his indecision.

“If you don’t explain yourself to me now, I’m not asking you again. Whatever the reason is can die when I leave this place and that’ll be it. I will wash my hands of you and be done with it like I should’ve done the first night we danced together. Look at me and tell me what is going on.” Gendry couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye, to see the depths of her attraction, attraction that matched his, and because of forces outside of themselves he was forced to deny. The two stood in silence, the sounds of pounding metal, the blacksmiths working and reshaping weapons and other metalwork the only sounds between them. Arya scoffed after the silence dragged on for too long.

“Coward.” She said simply but the accusation cut deep. The single word was said with such conviction that Gendry didn’t doubt the belief she had in the word, belief that he was nothing more than a coward who had led her along and played games with her and lied to her. She was right, he was all of those things and he hated it. He hated being this way with her.

She turned to walk away from him, her back stiff. His head pounded in time with the hammers around him, his shoulder throbbing as well. It was like his body was punishing him for his dishonesty, his impotence, his weakness in the face of all this. He shook his head to himself as Arya continued away, unsure if he was going to regret his decision but he wasn’t his mother, he did trust Arya and he owed her for everything he had been putting her through, he owed her the warning. She deserved it, just as Alayaya had.

 “You’re in danger.” He called after her.

“I can walk to the castle on my own just fine.” She shot back, not breaking stride.

“That’s not what I mean. Here, in this city, with my parents, you’re in danger.” She paused now, glancing back at him.

“What are you talking about?” Gendry sighed and walked up to her, ignoring the way the hammering mirrored the hammering of his heart in his chest but he didn’t bring them elsewhere, the noise would mask their conversation.

“My father didn’t summon you all here so that he could mourn Lord Arryn with your father, he brought you all here because he wanted Jon Snow and if he only summoned him it would look suspicious and your father would’ve never sent him or let him come here.”

“What would your father want with my brother?” Gendry could already feel himself starting to regret this but he pushed it away.

“But he’s not. Jon’s not your brother.” Arya’s face immediately shuttered.

“How dare you? Your father has enough bastards to fill this whole starving city and you call enough of them your brothers and sisters to not have any right to insinuate that Jon is any less my brother than Robb, Bran or Rickon is.”

“Except he is. Your mother never got over Jon’s existence, did she? She always wondered who his mother was.” Arya shifted uncomfortably.

“So?”

“She asked Lord Baelish to look into it, she wanted to know. In his digging, he found out the truth. Jon isn’t your father’s son, he’s not your brother. He is Lyanna Stark’s son with Rhaegar Targaryen. He’s your cousin.” Arya stared up at him with shock before she let out a laugh.

“That’s the excuse you’re going with? I didn’t take you for such an elaborate liar but then again your mother is a Lannister and I’ve heard stories about them, her specifically.”

“I’m not making this up, this isn’t some grand lie so you won’t be angry at me. What sense would that make? I’m telling you this because my father, he’s planning to move against Jon eventually.” Arya narrowed her eyes at him.

“You actually believe this farce.”

“It doesn’t matter if you or I believe it, my father believes it. He hates Rhaegar Targaryen, he’s hated him for twenty years, ever since Lyanna Stark died and now their supposed son is here in the capital. What do you think he’ll do with him? You’re in danger.” He watched as Arya’s face slowly turned up in horror.

“Your father… how long have you known about this?”

“I was there when my father found out. I was there when he made plans to summon you all so he could get to Jon.” Arya’s gaze remained on him while shock overtook her face.

“He thinks Jon… and you knew about this, the entire time. You knew we’ve been in danger. And instead of telling me, instead of telling me to save our lives…” Arya suddenly lashed out at him, pushing him back just barely but with enough force to irritate his shoulder.

“You knew and you’ve spent time with me, smiling with me, laughing in my face knowing that your pervert of a father was plotting to hurt my brother or worse thanks to some bullshit assumption that he’s not my brother.”

“I wanted to tell you, I did…”

“You’re a liar and a coward!” Arya continued, pounding her fists against his chest and pushing him back. Gendry didn’t stop her onslaught. He deserved it.

“I didn’t mean for all of this to get so out of hand…”

“I hate you! I hate you!”

“Arya, I didn’t have a choice.”

“Of course you had a choice! And you made it! I should’ve never wasted a minute on you, I should’ve never kissed you. Everything about you, every word out of your mouth, every glance, every touch, it was all a lie so that you could distract me from your father’s plotting.”

“It wasn’t all a lie. I kissed you because I wanted to, I spent time with you because I wanted to. Everything got so twisted and I didn’t know what to do.” Arya shook her head and took a few shaky steps away from him. He reached out to steady her but she smacked his hands away.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me again.” She spared him one last disgusted look before storming away. Gendry slumped against a nearby window, clutching his shoulder lightly. He didn’t know if he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next POV: Arya


	18. Arya V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya reacts to the information she's been given.

The city was still lively as Arya stormed her way through it. The smallfolk had a reprieve from their poverty with the tourney going on. It seemed odd to Arya, she would think that all this pomp and alarum would just push in the masses’ faces what they didn’t have but instead they chose to enjoy the food and drink the castle sent their way and the minstrels that played in the streets. Arya had wanted to enjoy it, that was why she left the castle at all and went into the lower towns. Alayaya had invited her to celebrate with her and Arya had been happy to do so until she ran into Gendry and he told her what he had.

It was all a lie and a ludicrous one at that. Jon wasn’t a Targaryen, he wasn’t her cousin, he was her brother, her favorite brother. He was more like Father than any of the rest of them were. He looked nothing like Targaryens were said to look, he was a Northman through and through and furthermore he was a Stark.

 _But why would he lie?_ Arya thought as she faltered a little before continuing to charge forward.

She didn’t care why Gendry would lie, she just knew that he was. Even so, Jon was in danger. She knew what it was to have the king be standing before you and not see you but instead be seeing into the past, seeing someone beyond you so he could take out his desires for them on you. She still felt shivers of disgust as she remembered his fingers brushing against her lips, his words comparing her to her aunt Lyanna. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone and to think he would search for any Targaryen, let alone Rhaegar, in her brother and take his rage at the Dragon Prince out on Jon left her panicked and unsure. She needed to go straight to her father so they could leave this place. She didn’t want to be in this dirty, overcrowded city anymore. She didn’t want to breathe in its lies and filth a second longer.

She could tell the feast was still going on as she returned because she could hear ‘A Cask of Ale’ playing again. It was the king’s favorite song and so the minstrels played it ad nauseum. She would think the king would tire of it by now but he never did seem to. The guards gave her queer looks when she strutted pass them but didn’t stop her. She must look a sight from her little squabble with Gendry and practically jogging her way back to the keep but she didn’t care how disheveled she was.

She peeked into the Great Hall to see what was going on. She didn’t spot her father inside or Sansa for that matter, but she did see Rickon and Robb to one corner by the tables. Rickon was underneath a table with Shaggydog, a full meat platter before them. Robb was seemingly chastising Rick for having Shaggy with him when he was meant to be locked away with the others. She spotted Bran dancing in the crowd with Lady Shireen and Jon was walking towards the exit on the other side of the room on the arm of Elia Sand. Arya’s eyes strayed to the king who was sitting by the queen and not fondling a servant as he was wont to do during feasts. He wasn’t smiling or laughing. His face was red with wine and there was a look of intense hatred in his eyes as he stared directly at Jon. Arya felt like a cold hand was gripping her heart and shivers went up and down her spine. It was worse than any chill she felt in the North, even when she went to visit the Wall. Suddenly the king’s eyes flicked over to her and Arya felt frozen for a moment. His face softened, and he almost seemed to smile at her. It didn’t make her feel anything but disgust and a sense of fear she’d never admit out loud.

She retreated from the door and made her way to her father’s room, closer to the king’s chambers. She figured he must’ve turned in early or Sansa dragged him away to talk. She knocked his door lightly, looking up and down the hall for any unwanted ears, especially Varys’ little birds. She didn’t see any and this room didn’t have any passages in the walls, but she wouldn’t presume that they were free and clear. Her father answered the door warily, an expression of surprise alighting his face when he saw it was her.

“Arya? I thought you’d gone to bed, why do you look so harried?” Arya pushed her way into the room wordlessly. Sansa sat cross-legged on the bed. Her face turned up in concern when she saw her.

“What happened?” She asked. Arya shook her head, not sure where to begin.

“We need to leave this place.” Her father and Sansa shared a look between them but Arya was too keyed up to decipher its meaning.

“Why?” Sansa asked evenly.

“It’s the king. He wants to kill Jon. Gendry told me that he thinks Jon is a Targaryen, Prince Rhaegar’s son with Aunt Lyanna and he wants to kill him for it.” She watched her father and Sansa share another look between themselves and Arya narrowed her eyes.

“You two don’t look surprised. Why don’t you look surprised?”

“We’ve known for a short while the danger we are in now and we’re working on getting out of here safely.” Sansa answered. Arya felt some anger rising in her.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“As your sister said, we’ve only known the pressing danger for a short time. I didn’t want any of you to panic or draw more attention to us before you all take your leave. You all will be leaving tomorrow. It’s the final day of the tourney, the feast will be the largest of the three thrown and the drink will be more plentiful than it has been these last two times, you’ll go while everyone is distracted.” Her father explained.

“We’ll go.” Sansa corrected, shooting their father a look but he ignored it. Arya was still upset but at least they had some plan.

“What do you mean we’ll go? You’re staying?” Arya asked.

“I may have to.” Ned replied.

“You do not have to, it’ll be too dangerous.” Sansa protested.

“It’ll help to keep the rest of you out of danger and that is what is most important to me.”

“The king cannot be trusted. I told you he isn’t your friend anymore, all you will be to him is the man who betrayed him and hid Rhaegar Targaryen’s son from him.”

“I have been able to change Robert’s mind in the past, I will endeavor to do that now. If I am unable to, it will give you all the cover you need to get to Winterfell safely, and get Jon far away from Robert’s wrath.”

“Wait, why are you talking as if this allegation is true?” Arya interrupted. The two paused before looking back at her.

“Because it’s not. It can’t be. Jon isn’t a Targaryen, he’s a Stark. It’s Stark blood running through his veins, the blood of the North.” The two shared a look again and Arya felt her anger boil up swiftly.

“Don’t look at each other and talk with your eyes, talk to me. Tell me it’s not true. Tell me the only reason you would be staying behind, Father, is to tell the king that all of this is some lie made up by Queen Cersei or some other viper in this city to distract the king, to try to usurp him in some way.” Her father looked at her silently, seemingly struggling to find words.

“Tell me!” Arya insisted. Ned shook his head in response before looking into Arya’s eyes. She could see the truth even before he said anything.

“I was there when Robert stepped over the bodies of Rhaegar’s wife and children to get to the throne. I was there when he said he didn’t see people, humans who were brutally murdered but naught but a used whore and dragonspawn. Lyanna made me promise to keep her son safe, her dying words were pleas for me to protect him. All I’ve done since then is try to keep that promise, and it’s never been easy but now…” Her father trailed off, looking down with some shame. Arya shook her head in disbelief.

“You lied. You lied to us our entire lives. You let Jon live with the shame of being a bastard his whole life, you let Mother think you had dishonored her this whole time. All of this to protect your lie?” Arya asked incredulously. That didn’t sound like her father, not like the man she knew.

“I did it to protect my family, my blood. Everything I did was for my family.” He answered. If she were in a more understanding mood Arya would probably see the truth in his words but she felt like she was a ship left to wreck, crashing against the rocks with no relief in sight from the storm raging above her head.

“I know this is difficult to hear or accept as the truth, trust me I know, but—” Sansa started but Arya cut her off.

“And you? You knew about this? You, flitting around with Margaery Tyrell in this city full of liars and sycophants, you knew about all of this and you didn’t say anything? You just sat here scheming about like the perfect Southron lady you let yourself become, lying to all of us?” Sansa’s face became a mask of hurt and deep down Arya regretted causing it but her anger outweighed everything else.

“I’ve only known for two days, I don’t know any more than you do.”

“Sansa isn’t to blame for any of this. If there is someone you must be angry with, be angry with me.”

“Oh, I am. He doesn’t know, does he?” She would’ve noticed if his mood had suddenly changed. He would’ve been angry, repressed, quiet, brooding.

“No.” Her father confirmed.

“Well, you have to tell him.” She noticed her father’s lips purse in response and Sansa opened her mouth before closing it wordlessly.

“You’re going to keep lying to him?” Arya asked incredulously.

“I want Jon to know the truth as well, but maybe it’s better that we wait until we get out of the city first.” Sansa offered.

“It’s a problem that can wait, Arya.” Her father said but Arya’s eyes were on Sansa. She looked tired with subtle dark circles under her eyes and a weary set to her shoulders, but she nodded in agreement with their father.

“He’s lived with the lie his whole life, another few days of waiting won’t kill him but telling him here and now just might. And… he shouldn’t be here surrounded by strangers and ill-wishers when he learns such a thing. He should be surrounded by friends and family and home.” Sansa added. Arya shook her head at the two of them before turning tail and leaving the room, ignoring their calls behind her.

She didn’t realize where she was going until she got to the hallway with their designated bedrooms. She walked purposefully towards Jon’s room and knocked on his door.

 _If they won’t tell him, then I will._ She couldn’t lie to her brother’s face knowing the truth, not like her Father and Sansa.

A part of her acknowledged that she was being unfair to them, or at least to Sansa and if she were in a mood to be honest with herself she would know that a part of her anger at them was her anger at Gendry for lying to her and the king for the danger he presented towards her and her family. But for now the castle, the city, her very family felt like it was built on quicksand and lies. She wondered if anything about her relationship with Jon would’ve changed if they had known all along that they weren’t siblings. Would he have wanted to be as close to her if he knew she wasn’t his blood sister? But knowing that didn’t change their memories or the moments they had shared together for her. But what if it changed things for him?

Just then he pulled his door open and looked at her with surprise.

“Arya? What were you doing? Were you out riding this late? You look a sight. Has Father seen you?” Arya opened her mouth to answer but found words wouldn’t leave her mouth.

“Arya?” Jon stared down at her with concern on his face.

“Did something happen?”

 _What if he doesn’t want to be my brother anymore?_ She couldn't help but think.

Jon still stared down at her with concern. Arya felt tears come to her eyes, the night finally crashing down on her. So much had come to light in such a short amount of time and she didn’t have much time to process it before seeing his face.

Jon’s face went from concerned to alarm now as he stepped out of his room and started looking her over, seemingly for any sign of injury. Arya shook her head in response before flinging herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his back while tears slipped down her face. He only hesitated for a moment before hugging her back, one arm coming around her shoulders and the other running through her hair. She felt him press a light kiss to the top of her head as he whispered reassurances to her but she wasn’t sure that it would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter put me in a bit of a quandary. I wanted to get inside Arya's head and she does react a bit irrationally, with Sansa unfairly getting some of her anger but she is all over the place emotionally and I want her to be. Not sure how well I managed to pull that off, I felt a little uneasy I guess about her interaction with Sansa but ultimately I wanted it to be true to her character within this AU. Questions and comments are welcome.  
> Next POV: Jon


	19. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon knows there is something going on with his family but as things grow more and more suspicious around him he can't guess what the truth actually could be.

Jon liked to believe he knew his family well. Spending months, sometimes as long as a year, traveling across the seas could have created a distance that couldn’t be bridged but if anything, it just made getting to see them again all the sweeter. As a result, he knew he wasn’t going mad when he noticed the differences taking hold of his father and sisters. At first, he wanted to write it off as a delusion. It was strange being in the capital. Everything held an air of artifice to it that made one question their own thoughts. He had thought that Tyrosh had been bad with their notorious greed knowing little bounds. The city had been colorful and bright, even the people were colorful but there was a sense of malice that ran deep in the city, in all of the so-called Free Cities. Yet King’s Landing was even worse. All of this wealth and pomp was just a mask for the filth the city truly housed. He thought it might’ve been infecting him, making him see things that weren’t there, question his family when normally he wouldn’t. But Arya visiting his chambers the night before had clenched it.

His sister detested crying in front of others. She thought it made her seem weak and that was the last thing she wanted people to view her as. She didn’t even cry in front of their family, no one except for Jon. Usually she would tell him what the matter was but she didn’t this time. Instead she had fallen asleep next to him in his bed for the second time since they had been in King’s Landing. Sansa had explained little to him before when she dropped Arya off to his room and now Arya had shown up again with little to no explanation. He knew she had been spending time with Prince Gendry and noticed they were distant from each other again. A part of him wanted to chalk it down to boy trouble but he knew Arya far better than that and if it was that she would’ve told him. She had no qualms about telling him about her relationships before, even when he really rather not know.

Sansa was also acting strangely. She had been so absentminded lately. No, that wasn’t quite right. She had been thinking a lot about something that she wouldn’t tell him about, even though she clung to him. He was surprised the first day of the tourney when she latched on to his hand and wouldn’t let him go. They had moved pass the coldness of their childhood. They were their own people now, both adults with their own minds. She did not view him through the lens of her mother anymore and he didn’t view her distantly as if he were one of the smallfolk reflecting on a spoiled lady who he did not personally know. They were family now, siblings in more than just name and there was an easy affection between them but for her to cling to him like that with no explanation was not something that he could easily push away. He had asked Robb and Domeric if they knew anything about it but neither could shed much light on it.

“Perhaps Sansa’s with child. Fryd acted strangely both times she was pregnant and I could never pin her down. You two have been married for over a moon now and I’m not naïve enough to think you two have only been hugging locked away alone in your bedroom.” Robb had suggested. Domeric blushed in response to it as Jon gave Robb an exasperated look, he’d really rather not hear about his sister’s sex life.

“Sansa would’ve told me if she were pregnant.” Domeric had answered and they left it at that.

The second day of the tourney had rolled around and then Father was acting strangely too. He was carrying himself stiffly, especially around the king. It was the way he did when he didn’t want to be somewhere or was holding back his true emotion. No one else would notice it but Jon, who had been observing his family silently since his youth. He was confused about it. The king was his friend and yet Father looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in his presence. He also didn’t miss the subtle looks Sansa and their father shared or them walking off to talk in the corner at times that second day. Now there was Arya acting strangely too. It could not all be a coincidence, but Jon was at a loss over what could be prompting this behavior in them.

Arya hadn’t been there when Jon woke up and she wasn’t at the table with everyone else to break their fast. He noticed Sansa shoot a worried glance at Arya’s empty chair before sharing a short look with their father but he couldn’t glean anything from it. They ate mostly in silence until their father spoke up.

“I want everyone to make sure their things are packed before you leave to go to the tourney. We will be leaving tonight.” He announced without preamble. Jon shared a surprised look with Robb and Bran.

“Why are we leaving tonight? What about the feast?” Rickon questioned with confusion.

“We have stayed longer than I would’ve liked, and this feast will be just as the two previous feasts were. I want to be on the road before everyone else leaving King’s Landing is and night will provide that lack of traffic.” Father explained. Jon narrowed his eyes. Something about that explanation didn’t feel right. He felt a leg nudge his and glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Robb obviously shared in his skepticism.

“Will the king and queen be seeing us off?” Jon questioned, barely able to keep the challenge out of his voice. His father and Sansa looked at him with masks of seriousness.

“No.”

“What is going on?” Robb asked finally, his voice holding no levity. Father sighed in response.

“This place has become too dangerous for us to continue to remain here.” He said finally.

“Why?” Robb pressed.

“It’s not something that we should be discussing now. You’ll know when we leave the city.” Sansa added.

“But you know, why can’t we know?” Rickon protested.

“Rick, please.”

“It’s not fair!” Rickon exclaimed. Jon kept his eyes on his father and sister for a moment longer. They both seem tired and weary, like a heavy weight was on them. He could see the same weight on Arya. A part of him remained curious but the better part didn’t want to push either to the breaking point over something they would soon learn the truth of later on anyway.

“Rickon, enough. Let it go.” Jon spoke up before Rickon could go on a tirade. Rickon looked over at him, his face still betraying anger. Jon levelled a look one part warning and one part placating and in response Rickon kissed his teeth but went back to his food. Everyone else took it as a cue to resume eating as well.

It didn’t take Jon long to pack all of his belongings and set his bags aside before making his way to the tourney grounds. On the way he couldn’t help but think about Elia. He thought he was going to have more time with her, he wasn’t expecting to be told they were leaving tonight. He didn’t know what he would say to her, he didn’t want to just disappear on her. But what if there was nothing else to say? Who was to say she wanted anything to do with him once he left? She could get anyone she wanted in truth and there were more convenient pickings in this city and most likely in Dorne for her to choose from rather than him. He was going back to the North and would be set to sail again soon enough.

He made his way outside the keep and stopped over at the stables where the king was making them chain up their wolves. He had said it was for safety purposes. They had all protested that they were perfectly safe to wander, that they would even stick to the kingswood at night if the king so desired but their efforts had been shot down. Ghost was there with Frostfyre, Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria and Summer but Shaggydog was missing. Jon wasn’t surprised that Rickon had let him out. He just hoped they weren’t getting into any trouble wherever they were. Even though a stableboy had been selected to oversee the wolves, Jon liked to look in on Ghost as much as he could throughout the day and make sure he had eaten and was alright. He didn’t like not having him at his side, it felt wrong. They had never had to chain them up at Winterfell or anywhere else. They were rarely ever without them, save for if the wolves were hunting. Even though their father forbid them to sleep in their beds, it wasn’t a rule enforced and so it was mostly ignored. Ghost always accompanied Jon on his ship. He’d gotten used to sailing and traveling to new cities, to maneuvering through oft times suffocating crowds, the looks and whispers and children reaching out to touch him as he passed. Maybe that was why he was fairing better in the stalls than the others. Shaggydog and Nymeria were the most rebellious about it, Shaggy because he never stayed for long enough to grow used to it and Nymeria because she didn’t like being in one confined place for too long.

Nymeria jumped up onto the stall's door when Jon entered, pushing against the high gate to be let free. Jon gave her a sympathetic look but didn’t chance approaching her lest she snap at him. Frostfyre and Grey Wind paced their enclosures restlessly but didn’t do much else. Summer seemed to have his hackles up which surprised Jon because he was usually calmer. Lady and Ghost were the most acclimated to the restrictive area but curiously they too seemed agitated, their eyes taking everything in as if it were a threat.

The stableboy, Kip, was standing in the corner with a guardsman Jon vaguely recognized. Kip was tending to the guard's hand, which Jon could see was bleeding from a small wound.

“Everything alright?” Jon asked. The older man turned around with a disgruntled look on his face while Kip seemed shaken.

“No, I’m not alright. Your beast bit me.” The guard accused. Jon rose an eyebrow at that.

“Ghost?”

“Is there another wolf that belongs to you?” Jon glanced back at the albino direwolf. Ghost was staring at him intensely. The direwolves had a keener sense for danger than humans did. When Jon went with his father to fight against the Wildlings, Ghost had been able to sense enemies before Jon cottoned on to them, even ones amongst the Night’s Watch that hid behind smiles. But Jon didn’t think there was much danger for him here. He looked at Kip for answers. He had been the unlucky fellow chosen to oversee the direwolves but he had taken to them quickly and they had taken to him well enough.

“I’ve never seen him act like that, m’lord. He’s always been real quietlike and calm but today he’s been angry, aggressive. All of 'em have been. I figured it might’ve been the servants moving all the food around. I only noticed it when they started bringing the boars pass the stables. Then Ser Trent got too close to Ghost’s stable and he lashed out at him. None of them seem injured, I don’t know what’s wrong with 'em.” Kip explained with bewilderment.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong, they're wild beasts not meant for civilized company. Not that you’d know anything about that, halfling. I demand reparations immediately.” Ser Trent said pompously.

“Did he take a finger off?” Jon asked dubiously.

“It’s just a cut m’lord, should heal soon.” Kip answered before shrinking back at the guardsman’s growing anger.

“It doesn’t matter. That thing shouldn’t be here. It’s unnatural. If you’re not careful, you just might find me wearing a new fur cape. Perhaps I’ll make your grave right beside its, you unmannered bastard.”

“Large words, Ser, but considering how you react over a nip from the animal perhaps you are not the one to be making such threats.” Jon heard from the stables entryway and turned to see Ser Barristan standing there resplendent in his gold armor. He was quiet as he approached them, despite all the heavy armor he donned.

“Ser Barristan.” Jon said respectfully, bowing his head.

“Ser Trent, shouldn’t you be on guard duty inside the keep and nowhere near these stables? What were you doing here anyway? Not loitering about, I hope. Such an action could leave the royal family in peril and reflect quite poorly on you and your house.”

“Of course not, Lord Commander.” Ser Trent said but he shot Jon a glare before trudging out of the stables.

“Never did like him, quick to speak and slow to back his words up.” Ser Barristan commented. Jon shot him a thankful smile before turning to Ghost with a troubled expression. He approached the stable and stared at the wolf. Ghost hadn’t taken his eyes off Jon once. He reached in and offered his hand to his companion. Ghost licked his hand and whined a little. That surprised Jon, he hardly ever made a sound. Jon wished to let him go but didn’t want to cause a problem with his father and the king, especially since there was some obvious tension there.

 _We’re leaving soon. We’ll be out of this city tonight and on our way back to the North. We'll see Fryd and the girls again. Mayhaps I’ll take you north to the Wall and let you play in the snow there. We can catch up with Uncle Benjen too._ Jon thought, hoping that Ghost could hear him somehow. He knew he understood him when he spoke but sometimes he even thought that he knew what he was thinking. Ghost bumped his head against Jon’s hand once before retreating and Jon took that as confirmation that he was settled for now.

“Separation anxiety?” Ser Barristan asked as they began making their way out of the stables.

“Maybe. We’ve never locked them away before but the king ordered it so.”

“He is concerned for the people’s safety. The more foolish ones like Ser Trent may approach when the warning is ample and be likely to lose an arm.”

“He’s never bitten anyone who wasn’t a threat before. It’s odd.” Jon glanced back at the stables but shook his head in response. Maybe it was as Ser Barristan said and they were all just missing being free and by their sides. Jon decided to change the subject as they walked towards the tourney grounds.

“I was saddened to see you eliminated from the tourney, Ser.”

“Yes, well that mystery knight is certainly something.” He replied with a knowing smile. Jon hesitated before smiling in response. Elia hadn’t worn any of her family’s colors or any colors at all and hadn’t revealed her identity. Now she was in the finals and the buzzing about the mystery knight had the court astir, not just about her identity but also about the last tourney with a mystery knight, the Tourney at Harrenhal. Jon knew what had happened there. He heard in whispers about the day Rhaegar Targaryen rode past his own wife to crown Jon’s aunt as the queen of love of beauty. That action helped set off a chain of events that would lead to Robert’s Rebellion and the deaths of countless including Elia Martell, Prince Rhaegar and Jon's aunt Lyanna.

“I was there at the last tourney with a mystery knight, the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Questions still surround their identity.” Ser Barristan commented, almost as if reading Jon's mind.

“Were you also there when Rhaegar Targaryen passed his wife over?”

“I was.” Ser Barristan said shortly.

“If you don’t mind my asking, why did he do it? Was she so terrible a wife to him?” Jon asked. Ser Barristan sighed in response.

“Princess Elia was a good and gracious lady. She was clever with a sweet wit and kind disposition. Prince Rhaegar was very fond of her.”

“ _Fond_ of her?”

“The marriage was arranged by Queen Rhaella and Princess Loreza. They were very close friends and Aerys wanted someone of Valyrian lineage. Princess Elia and Prince Rhaegar shared the common ancestor, Princess Daenerys, from her marriage to Prince Maron Martell. They made a good match, Rhaegar cared deeply for her but he wasn’t in love with the princess. As for Lady Lyanna, I don’t know what happened between the two but the Rhaegar I knew wasn’t a rapist. Prone to flights of fancy and bouts of melancholy and anger, yes, but a rapist… I couldn’t imagine it. He did not share his father’s worse tendencies. He saw too much of his mother’s suffering at Aerys' hands for me to believe Rhaegar would inflict the same on another. That doesn’t make what he did right. To have humiliated Elia in such a public forum… she didn’t deserve that, she and her children did not deserve to be left to Aerys' mercy but the heart does not sometimes match the brain and it is sometimes hard to get the two on the same page.” Jon took in all the knight had said. He knew more about the Rebellion than he did growing up. His father stopped all talks of it at Winterfell but across the Narrow Sea, stories ran rampant and there were many interpretations of the events. He had indulged in some of the history books to learn more. Some portrayed Rhaegar Targaryen as a malicious rapist, another mad Targaryen. Others painted him as a tragic prince lost in his own delusions of grandeur. Others still viewed him as a man seeking love in the wrong places. Jon didn’t know which was true, people seemed to have their versions which they believed to be true and would not be persuaded otherwise. He never asked his father, he didn’t want to upset him.

“Why the curiosity about such things, Jon Snow?” Ser Barristan asked. Jon shrugged in response.

“Just ponderings.” He answered noncommittally. Ser Barristan gave him a searching look before nodding to himself.

“You enjoy the tourney, Jon Snow.” He said before walking off towards the dais to guard the king. Jon watched him go, wondering briefly about the look before going off to sit in the stands for the final tilts. Elia was in the finals but with the way she had been performing against men much larger than her Jon wasn't worried, not too much.

When he arrived to the stands, Sansa and Arya were missing. Domeric shrugged in response to Jon’s raised eyebrow but he decided to push it aside as the tilts started. Elia capitalized on the mystery surrounding her identity. Women were swooning over themselves, wondering who this gallant knight was. It was the talk of the tourney. Jon was sure her sisters and cousins knew her identity and her parents, maybe Princess Myrcella but other than that he didn’t think anyone else truly did.

Elia performed admirably and with skill. She possessed more strength than she appeared to and controlled her horse with skill and finesse. She also happened to be wearing the favor he gave her. She had been most insistent upon it and so Jon gave her a gray cloth and she tied it to her forearm and kept it for the past three days. He felt a curious sense of satisfaction at that but wouldn’t ever say so.

The tilts passed quickly and in a blur of cheering and sand kicked up whenever a rider was unhorsed. The final tilt was coming up now. Elia was one of the final contenders. Her challenger was Ser Amory Lorch. He was a portly man of average height but he had proven stronger than one might think him to be and it propelled him to the final tilt. Elia had been using skill over strength and it had worked but Jon worried she'd exhausted all of her tricks. It was Lorch’s reputation that troubled Jon more than anything else. Rumors flowed about the man. It was said he threw the last Lord Tarbeck, a three-year-old child, down a well during the Reyne-Tarbeck Rebellion. It was rumored that he killed Princess Rhaenys during Robert's Rebellion, Elia's cousin. He worried she was too emotionally invested in this. He wouldn't put it past her that she had entered hoping for such a match as this but there was nothing he could do to stop her. He glanced over at Prince Oberyn. He sat loosely, his body relaxed, but he sported a hate-filled glare directed at Amory Lorch. He didn't seem worried about Elia.

The horn blew for the first run and Jon watched, his fist clenched as Elia and Ser Amory rode at one another. The difference in the two was almost comical, this larger man clad in plate armor versus this 5'3 skinny thing in leathers only wearing metal gauntlets, a breastplate covered in boiled leather and metal shoulder pads. They both missed each other at the first run, their lances just barely glancing the other. They turned back towards one another and they were off again. They ran at each other, their horses galloping fiercely. They both landed blows this time. Ser Amory landed a blow on Elia's shoulder, catching the armor there. Elia hit his helm, knocking it askew and denting it at the cheek. The crowd perked up, murmuring growing amongst them.

Jon watched with concern as Elia twisted her arm around, hesitating as she rotated it but it didn't appear to have been knocked out of the socket. A squire brought her another lance but Elia waved off the one he gave her and pointed to another one. The squire handed it over with a hint of hesitation and Jon narrowed his eyes at the action. He looked over at Amory Lorch to see he had gotten himself ready to enter the tilt again. He didn't change his helm. Jon could see a part of his neck was exposed now. It was only a hint of skin, just a sliver and so the knight probably did not worry over it. He more than likely underestimated his opponent. He was much larger and how could he know she had any vendetta against him?

Jon sat up straighter in his seat as Elia readied herself for another run. The lance she requested was a decorated one with panels of gold that was shined so much the sun glared off of it. Jon noticed Ser Amory shying away from it as sunlight reflected off Elia's lance onto the knight's helm and hit his eyes. This wasn't looking good for the infamous man at all. Lorch pulled his visor down on his helm, deciding to ignore the present danger.

The horn blew and they ran at one another, their lances held out. Jon saw the exact moment she aimed it perfectly towards Lorch's neck. The light reflected off the gold of the lance, blinding Ser Amory so much so that his lance was not properly aimed at her. They hit then, Lorch's lance grazing off Elia's breastplate ineffectually. Elia's lance struck true right in Lorch's neck. Despite the gold ornamentation, the lance came apart as if it were made of nothing more than paper, shards of wood flying everywhere and piercing through Lorch's neck. The horse ran a few feet more with Lorch still on his back, blood pouring down his silver armor onto the horse before the knight fell from the saddle to the sand.

The crowd was silent watching the knight twitch on the ground as he breathed his last. Elia hopped off her horse and made her way over to Lorch, standing above him. She removed her helm then. Her black hair cascaded out of it, flowing down her back, revealing her identity. The crowd gasped around them as she stood over the man, not moving until he went still.

No one was quite sure what to do then, Jon least of all. He was startled as Princess Myrcella suddenly stood up at the dais and began clapping in earnest. Jon didn't take a second before joining her and his brothers did right behind him. Slowly but surely, the crowd followed. The nobles demurely clapping despite their confusion and disgust. The smallfolk had no trouble roaring proudly and uproariously, Lorch having no doubt tormented them in the past. Elia walked away and seated her horse, smiling beautifully for the crowd as she was declared the victor.

Her squire handed her the flower crown. It was rock roses, the same grey Dornish rock roses she had shown him in the godswood but they alternated between the rock roses and what looked like winter roses. He supposed she would crown one of her sisters, possibly Princess Myrcella in her cousin's stead. Jon focused more so on calming his heart, glad that she had managed to survive the ordeal and half feeling silly for swooning as if he were a damsel or a maiden sending her knight off to war. His thoughts were broken as a crown of flowers were suddenly placed on his lap. He looked up with alarm to see Elia withdrawing her lance and smiling up at him. Jon was dumbstruck. The nobles were murmuring around him, the smallfolk were laughing bawdily in amusement. Robb withdrew the crown from his lap and placed it on his head with a wide grin on his face.

Jon could feel all the eyes on him. Ser Barristan was looking at him with a considering gaze. Prince Oberyn was watching him contemplatively causing Jon to blush and look away towards the box where his father stared down with a lost expression that meant he was physically there but mentally was far away. King Robert looked... angry. He glared down at Jon like he had done something personally odious to him. The gaze made him flinch. The action caught his father's attention and he glanced at King Robert before capturing his attention away from Jon. The king listened to whatever Father said before announcing Elia the winner. Jon clapped again along with everyone else trying to push all those stares away but it didn't seem like they looked at him for the same reason everyone else did. Ser Barristan, Prince Oberyn, his father, the king, they all looked... dare he say haunted, as if they were seeing someone else in his place. Jon couldn't begin to guess who that person could be and he wasn't sure he wanted to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions and Comments are welcome.  
> Next POV: Gendry


	20. Gendry VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is taking place at the same time as the previous chapter.

Gendry did not want to get out of bed.

The sun was high in the sky as he woke up on the final day of the tourney, and it was as if the weight of the day physically held him down. Gendry’s entire body felt like it was a bruise, especially his shoulder, but it was in no way as bad as his head from his night of drinking or indeed his heart from his confrontation with Arya. After he told Arya the truth and she stormed off, he went right back to the tavern and spent an inordinate amount of time knocking drinks back, trying to forget her face and her accusations towards him.

Liar.

Coward.

He couldn’t find the willpower or energy to drag himself out of bed. His shoulder throbbed, his head pounded, his heart ached. He rolled onto his back in the soft bed which did nothing to soothe him. He had a rough night of fitful sleeping. He couldn’t get out of his mind the image of Arya’s betrayed face, the hurt in her eyes. He had wanted to avoid all of that, he did not want to see her hurt but had that ever not been a possibility? Eventually, she would’ve known the truth and she would’ve known that he had lied to her and she would hate him, like she did now.

 _I should’ve never gotten close to her._ He admonished himself.

It had been foolish. He had known where they were heading, and their paths were not aligned. His belonged with his family and hers ran along with her own. He had seen her with her siblings and her father, had seen how close she was to Jon Snow. He should’ve known that she would follow him, even to the grave. That thought caused a shiver to run down his spine.

Reality was setting in more and more for him. His father would kill Jon Snow if the Starks did not get out of the city first and he would probably kill anyone that stood in his way of the task.

Gendry couldn’t remember a time when his father was much of a father, not to him. There were times when he would randomly show some interest. He had recognized Gendry’s skill with a hammer and even gave him pointers on it. He never stopped or discouraged Tommen from collecting cats, even when their mother tried to dissuade him. He never paid much attention to Joffrey but that was to be expected. He would occasionally show interest in one of his bastards upon their discovery but eventually they fell to the wayside when he grew bored of them. If there was any among them that he could constitute as a father towards, it was Myrcella. She was the one he had spent meaningful time with and even though he got bored of her too, usually she recaptured his attention more than any of the rest of them did and she was persistent in her efforts to seek him out and forge a relationship with him. Gendry didn’t even know who his father was as a person. He didn’t know if he had a favorite color, he didn’t know what his parents were like, didn’t know what his childhood was like save for conquests, both in and out of the bedroom. What he did know intimately was the depths of his father’s hatred. He saw the way he caved in Uncle Jaime’s head in the small council room, listened to his drunken rants about how he had killed Rhaegar Targaryen and all the ways he wished he could’ve killed him. To think he would do something like that to any of the Starks, to Arya…

They were not bad people. Gendry admired Lord Stark and the way he presented himself. He would’ve been more suited to be king than Robert ever was. Robb Stark had the makings of a great leader. Lady Sansa was quietly smart. Lords Brandon and Rickon were inquisitive and adventurous and had all the traits to be great knights in their adulthoods if they chose that path. Jon Snow had no idea of his birth. He was a kind person who was more comfortable not being the center of attention and was supportive and loving towards his family. Then there was Arya, he had never met another person like her. She annoyed him and intrigued him all at once. He never knew anyone who made him want to never see them again and yet want to be with them all the time.

 _We don't get to choose who we love._ His mother had said to him.

He did not love Arya like his mother suspected, he had only known her for a few short weeks, but he could love her, he could love her so easily. His heart already pounded around her, his body responded to her in ways it didn’t to most others and he didn’t think he would be as torn up about all of this if it had been anyone else that he was sacrificing for his family.

“What choice do I have?” He mumbled to himself, rubbing a hand over his face.

He stayed in bed later than he would’ve under any other circumstances, straight up until Myrcella barged into his room with Amarei and Marissa trailing behind.

“Why are you still in bed? It’s the final day of the tourney.” She asked. He looked over at his half-sisters with great effort. The contrast between them was such that it was impossible for it to not be noticed. Amarei and Marissa had the Baratheon look, straight dark hair and ocean blue eyes. Their own mother had the Lannister look rather than the Frey, so why should Myrcella, Tommen and Joffrey all have the Lannister look? It didn’t make sense and soon people would know why. Gendry sighed to himself.

“I’m not coming.” He replied. Myrcella delicately rolled her eyes.

“Of course you’re coming. You need to be there to support Elia. We’ve no idea what response she’ll get when she wins this tourney and as her friends, we must support her.”

“Besides, you’re the crown prince, you can’t be a lazabout.” Amarei added, getting a look of admonishment from Myrcella in return.

Gendry would’ve been content to remain where he was, but his sisters pulled him from bed and forced clothes on him before ushering him out the door and on the path towards the tourney grounds. Gendry silently followed them, ignoring their chatter. The topic was Prince Trystane… again. Even with him in the city, he consumed most of Myrcella’s thoughts.

 _Young love._ Gendry thought with a soft scoff.

They split up when they arrived, Myrcella and the girls going towards the dais, but Gendry waved them off. He walked away after reassuring Myrcella that he wasn’t going to sneak back to the keep when her back was turned, he just felt too keyed up to sit in one place with his parents and siblings until the tilts began.

He passed through the tents, exchanging greetings with the knights and well wishes as he walked pass them but mostly he tried to keep a low profile. As the prince, it wasn’t an easy task.

“Prince Gendry?” He heard behind him. He repressed an eyeroll at another person calling for his attention but he was caught off guard when he turned and saw Sansa Stark standing behind him.

“My lady.” He said, some surprise seeping into his voice. She stared at him for a moment, as if assessing him, making snap judgements in the blink of an eye. He wasn’t sure what she was looking for or what she found but eventually she nodded for him to follow her. He glanced around, making sure no one saw him as he joined her on her trek between the winding tents that were set up for the knights.

Lady Sansa led him to a tent that had the Tyrell sigil outside of it, Loras Tyrell’s tent. Gendry looked to her for answers.

“We will be able to speak freely here, Loras is out preparing for the tilts.” Gendry still was skeptical of that but froze as he stepped into the tent. Arya sat in a chair awaiting them but when she saw him, her face turned up in fury.

“What is he doing here?”

“We need to speak to him about several things.”

“There’s nothing he can say that we should believe, he’s a liar.” Arya retorted heatedly.

“I lied to protect my family, my brothers and sister.” Gendry defended.

“At the expense of mine?”

“Would you have done anything different if you were in my position?”

“I wouldn’t have befriended you. I wouldn’t have smiled in your face knowing there was a noose floating above your family’s heads. I wouldn’t have ki… I would have done differently.” Arya replied angrily.

“We don’t have time for this argument. I didn’t bring him here so you two could squabble.” Lady Sansa mediated, looking between the two of them with an interested look. Arya scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“What does he have to say that we should care about?”

“Prince Gendry, we need to know everything your father knows and what we should be worried about. We know that he knows about Jon, we know about your mother’s… affair.”

“There isn’t much else more than that. My mother supposedly learned this information from Lord Baelish and she told my father when he had discovered her secret, though how he did has not been made clear to me. At the moment, I have contingencies to get my family out of the city.”

“Contingencies that relied on my family being captured.” Arya pointed out. Gendry glanced over at her.

“I didn’t want things to be this way, Arya. I didn’t even know who you were when my mother told my father about Jon Snow. I didn’t plan… I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“But didn’t you? What was the plan to be? Use the king’s attack as cover to leave the city? Wasn’t it?” Gendry shifted uncomfortably. Arya smiled humorlessly.

“A waste of time.” She mumbled before leaving the tent in a huff. Lady Sansa sighed as she watched her walk pass.

“She may not believe me, and you might not either, but I do mean it when I say I didn’t want this to happen this way.” Lady Sansa looked back at him with a face betraying her weariness and melancholy.

“Arya is angry, that is true, but she is more than angry. She is hurt. What exactly is your relationship with my sister?” Gendry felt warmth rushing to his cheeks.

“I— we’re friends.”

“What kind of friends? I’m well aware she is no maiden, if you have seen fit to seduce her in order to distract her—”

“I didn’t. It wasn’t like that. I wouldn’t let it be like that, knowing what my father wanted to do. I wanted to. She wanted to. But I wouldn’t do something like that to her.” Lady Sansa studied him again. He was beginning to feel like an insect at her mercy.

“If you don’t mind my asking, King Robert is a horrible king, why smuggle your family away instead of raising a coup against the king?”

“I wouldn’t have enough support to do something like that. Already the small council is slowly leeching my power away, after this is done I will have to right many wrongs in this keep but only after this disaster has been averted.”

"Perhaps if you had said something sooner you would've had the North and the Riverlands on your side. House Stark and House Bolton are the two strongest houses in the North. We have close ties to the Riverlands, we would fight together. You and your Uncle Renly seem close enough and he could've been convinced that King Robert was no longer a viable option for the realm, I think he would be glad to see him off the throne actually. Would it have been so hard for you to get the Stormlands on your side? And with them comes the Reach, that's already two-thirds of the continent with you. There was another way. Perhaps bloodier but there were ways." She said it matter-of-factly but it sounded like chastising to him. Gendry didn't have anything of value to say to that.

“I wish safety for your family, Prince Gendry, truly I do. However, you should know my family will come first. I want them out of here as soon as possible and as peaceful as possible as well. I don’t want anything done that can’t be taken back. A cool head and a soft hand will be needed. Your father, does he plan to strike tonight?”

“I would assume so, yes.”

“The feast will be a good distraction for us to flee. Everyone will be drinking more than they have been these last two nights. We will make an appearance because we must and we will leave. I tell you this because you may want to make sure your family does the same. I am choosing to trust you, Prince Gendry, even though logic reasons I shouldn’t. Do not make me regret it.” The lady said firmly before abruptly turning to leave as well in the same direction as Arya did.

Gendry sighed to himself, he would need to make sure things were in motion for his family to leave tonight. He was apprehensive and anxious but more than anything he wanted this nightmare to be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next POV: Various


	21. Various

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final feast.

Ned never had great love for tourneys. Once he had seen one up-close, it lost its luster. Besides which, there was so much politics involved, more than one would think for mock-battles but what else was to be expected with the South? Everything was politics. Tourneys took on a whole new meaning for him following the rebellion. He couldn’t help but think of Lyanna these past few days. Learning that the secret about Jon was out had only made the memories even more pervasive in his mind. Seeing him with that crown on his head, the winter roses mixed in with his black curls, made images of Lya invade his brain and grab hold of his heart, meaning to rip it out right then and there. She haunted his dreams enough in Winterfell, but to be in this place with Robert and Jon and the Martells and the threat of injury or death hanging over their heads was almost too much for him. Being in King’s Landing brought back to mind things the rebellion had broken in him that could never be fixed.

 _The children will be leaving tonight, and I will go with them. We will leave this place and never return if we don’t have to._ Ned reassured himself.

There was a quieter voice that whispered doubts to him, that told him that Robert’s wrath would follow him wherever he went in this world, whether that be to the North or not, but Ned pushed that away and focused on thinking of what needed to be done. He needed to tell Jon and Cat, he needed to tell his family the truth. He did not know how any of them would react. He could expect anger, shock, hurt but understanding would perhaps be too much to ask for. He did not want this to break his family, but he couldn’t let it kill them either.

He did not join his children when he left the dais, not able to face Jon in that crown, and he did not join Robert as he got on his horse, headed back to the castle to drink more wine no doubt. Instead, he found himself weaving through the tents, trying to find some peace of mind, some equilibrium as he waited for night to fall so he could leave this city behind. Time felt like it was slowing down just to prolong his suffering.

There were knights shifting amongst the tents as he walked through them, pulling off armor and drinking and generally roughhousing. Some nodded greetings to him, some ignored him, others stared at him. He disregarded most of them. He could hear some singing coming from some of the tents which held sigils of the Stormlands. He could hear them singing “The Fury” in a tone much more lively than the lyrics allowed. They were singing the latter part of the song, the verses about Robert’s Rebellion rather than what the song was first written about, The Storm King Durran Godsgrief and the goddess Elenei’s forbidden love and how that caused the death of his family but how their loss and the thought of losing her caused him to defy the Gods, to bring forth his fury. The most recent iteration of the song compared Robert to Durran, how his fury at losing his love defied kings and dynasties, a fury that was divined and writ by the Gods.

Ned never allowed any version of that song to be played at Winterfell. He didn’t want to hear anyone chronicling to him of all people the tragic love story of a stag and a she-wolf, beds of blood and winter roses, snakes beheaded by lions, dragons slain in water, hatchlings crushed against mountains. He moved away from the tent where they sung as quickly as he could until he couldn’t hear them anymore. He contemplated going back to the castle when a voice interrupted his musings.

“A lone wolf, a rare sight indeed.” Ned stopped and turned around as Prince Oberyn came swaggering up to him, a tilted smile on his lips. Ned was unsure what the deadly man had to say to him. He had never personally had a problem with him, but they had been on separate sides of the rebellion and had close personal ties to its inception through their sisters. Ned decided to proceed with extreme caution. He didn’t know if the prince knew about Jon, but he couldn’t take his chances.

“Prince Oberyn.” Ned replied, nodding respectfully.

“I think your family takes your banners a little too seriously. Rarely do I see any of you not in the company of one another, walking about like a pack, and then there are your beasts. I’ve seen many wonders in the world, but they are a startling and enticing delight.” The prince said casually. Ned was never good at small talk, Northerners were always too straight forward for that. Prince Oberyn seemed to sense as much.

“Your son has been getting very close to my daughter.” He stated plainly. Ned had noticed Jon hanging around with Elia Sand. The irony wasn’t lost on him: Prince Rhaegar and Lya’s son with Princess Elia’s niece and namesake. The Gods certainly knew how to tell a joke.

“Jon would do nothing to bring dishonor to your daughter if that is what you are worried about.” Prince Oberyn scoffed as they walked along the tents.

“There is no dishonor in sex. The sooner you Northerners realize that, the less uptight you will all be. Besides, I doubt he can do anything to her she hasn’t already experienced. Of all my daughters, she was my most difficult one. It did pain me to send her away, but my brother insisted on her being with Princess Myrcella until she and my nephew wed. I’m also sure he was not sad to be rid of her terrorizing the Water Gardens as she was. I accepted long ago that one of these perfumed cunts may get to her but I did not expect some gloomy Northern boy to do so. If I thought you capable, I would think you were trying to get close to my family for some duplicitous reason.”

“What reason could I have for possibly doing that?” The prince shrugged.

“I know King Robert wants you for his Hand, and he has long been paranoid about Dorne and what we do. Several times he has tried to talk Doran into taking the title of lord instead of prince and tried to insert himself into our politics of which he could never understand. Jon Arryn tried to gather what information on us that he could to little success but sending in your bastard to seduce my daughter and take what information you could from her would not be a horrible plan. I cannot say what her willpower is, she can be irrational, perhaps over-verbal.” It did not surprise Ned that even though there had been no announcement, the prince knew of Robert’s plan. The Red Viper's reputation preceded him. Ned understood Robert’s paranoia where Dorne was concerned. Much like the North and the Iron Islands, it operated nearly entirely independent of the seven kingdoms. It would not be too much of a stretch to believe they were still holding out for revenge after all they had lost but Ned would not involve himself in such matters. He had matters of his own to handle that could not be pushed aside for something like this.

“It’s a good thing then that you know better.” Ned said simply to the not-so-veiled accusation.

“Yes, it is. It would be twisted cruelty from the Gods, to have lost my sister partly due to the actions of a Stark and then to lose my daughter just the same. A cruelty the Gods would laugh at to behold. They share the same name, but Elia is not much like her namesake. My sister was perhaps the most noble woman I’d ever met. Sweet with a gentle wit and a quiet wisdom and intelligence. She was more sun than spear, but she had bite in her as well. I worried King’s Landing would swallow her alive, that the dragons would burn every good thing about her, which was all of her. My sister was everything I was not and perhaps that is why we complimented one another so perfectly, why when I lost her I was so... unmoored. In truth, I have always been so very curious about what you knew about what happened during those days, how it happened.” Ned paused and stared at the man, finally the real reason for this conversation.

“I knew very little.”

“I am interested in what little you did know. Did you know your sister and Prince Rhaegar would run off together? Did you know they would embarrass my sister in front of the entire realm twice? Did you know they would leave her in the hands of a mad man? Did you know Lord Tywin would give the order that saw my sister raped and split in two with The Mountain’s greatsword and her children slaughtered right before her eyes as she begged for mercy? Did you know King Robert Baratheon would step over their bodies like they were nothing to ascend to the throne?” The smile stayed on Prince Oberyn’s lips but every word that left was layered with deadly intent, as venomous as the viper people toted him as. Ned did not cower or show how ill-at-ease he was. He was still a Stark, he was still a wolf and he would not be bared down by a snake.

“I understand your hurt. I understand your anger. I lost my sister during the war just as well as you did. My sister was remorseful for her actions in the end. I would know, she died crying in my arms. She was a child, a willful, rebellious child. She was a year younger than my youngest daughter is now when she died, two years younger when she met Prince Rhaegar. She didn’t understand what she was getting herself into, she couldn’t understand. I won’t defend what she did, and I am sorry for your sister’s death, truly I am, but Lyanna suffered too. She died too. If I had known what she was going to do, I would’ve stopped her, talked sense to her. I would’ve done something before my father was killed, before my brother was killed, before Lyanna died along with them, my friends and countrymen finding themselves in the grave as well. If there is a living person in this world you seek vengeance from, look to Lord Tywin and Ser Gregor Clegane, not me. And don’t blame Jon for actions done before he could take his first breath in this world.” Prince Oberyn spent an uncomfortable amount of time studying Ned before responding.

“My sister would not want me to hold the sins of the father against the son.”

“And you endeavor to live your life by what she would’ve wanted?” Ned asked flatly, not able to hold his tongue. It drew a laugh from Prince Oberyn.

“I admit I am not always faithful to her teachings. It is harder to be when she is not here to enforce them. Besides, pissing off my brother gives me such delight, too much to simply stop. Elia always said I was too wild.”

“Funny, my sister always said I wasn’t wild enough. Too quiet.” Somehow, despite how far away he thought he was from the tents, Ned could still hear the melody of “The Fury” drift towards them on the wind. They were up to the part about Princess Elia now,

_When sickly vipers raised their head_

_Pale, unworthy and weak_

_The lion came and killed it dead_

_Hatchlings spread ‘cross the mountain-face_

_Left only victory for the stag in their stead_

_Yes, dragons and snakes, both are dead and slain_

_Never to rise in victory again_

The amusement once again seemed to get sucked right out of the apparently carefree man and Ned could tell he heard it too.

“Can I offer you some advice, Lord Stark?” Ned looked at him inquiringly.

“You have a lovely family. Do yourself a favor and pack up your lovely family and take them back to the North where this city’s corruption can’t touch them or you because if any of you stay here, this place will eat you alive and spit back out whatever is left for the buzzards to pick at.” Ned stared at him, taken aback at the warning.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m a simple man when it comes down to it, Lord Stark. While on one hand I’d be quite interested to see the tension between yourself and the king boil over, on the other hand I’m not overly eager to see children laid out before the throne in red sheets again.” Ned wasn’t sure he believed that was all it was but before he could further question him, the prince sauntered away towards an olive-skinned woman around their age dressed resplendently in an orange dress. She shot Ned a smile with a curious glint in her eye before walking off with the prince. Ned did not bother staying by the tents to contemplate the prince’s meaning. He was eager to leave this place and he didn’t want to hear that song anymore. He decided he would return to the keep and make sure the children and his guardsmen were all packed and ready to go in preparation for tonight.

**~*~*~**

Cersei hated feasts, she always had. All the insipid ladies following her about begging for favor, being forced to pretend to care about whatever the feast was for, having to suffer through Robert’s drunken antics and Jaime’s annoying pestering to steal some time alone together and Tyrion waddling about telling his crude jokes. The only redeeming part about it was the wine but she didn’t indulge herself as she usually would. She felt more on pins and needles now than she had in a long time. The only times she had been more anxious was when Gendry and Steffon were sick and when she found herself standing before a fuming Robert in the small council chambers weeks ago. Everything was in place for her to leave but that didn’t make the reality any easier. She would be leaving two children behind tonight. It would be temporary, as soon as the Stranger took Robert she would return to the capital, but when that would be was uncertain.

A part of her protested at the notion of leaving them, especially Myrcella, her only daughter. However, she had watched Myrcella smile happily with Prince Trystane and chat amicably with Princess Arianne and Prince Oberyn and she knew she had made the right choice. Myrcella would be safe enough with her betrothed and when Cersei returned she would get her daughter back, no matter the cost.

Gendry was the crown prince, she couldn't take him away and risk alienating him from the people who would support his claim. He would need to do much lobbying here to cultivate alliances. She wished she could stay to make sure his power was consolidated between them. It will be difficult for him without her against the likes of Baelish and Varys and Pycelle, but he could lay the groundwork for her return in King's Landing better than he could hiding away with her in the Free Cities.

She would not be alone where she was going, she would have Tommen and Joffrey, the two of her children she needed to keep closest to her to protect them. Tommen was so sweet and so naïve, she oft times wondered where he came from. All that sweetness and naivety and shyness and complete lack of any bite in him sometimes made her wonder if he was truly hers and Jaime's but it also ensured that he could not be left to himself, he needed her. Joffrey was too volatile to leave alone. Cersei could admit in her own head that he was a brat and prone to cruelty even worse than she had ever been. If he were the crown prince she was not sure where any of them would be. He wasn't reliable in the way Gendry was, or intuitive to others' feelings like Myrcella or learned like Tommen, he was just Joffrey. He was all bluster and pride, a true lion, but more roar than bite and so she needed to protect him too lest he get himself killed.

She watched him now talking to one of Robert's bastard girls who was walking around with a jug of wine. Whatever he was telling her, he was delighting in and she seemed uncomfortable. Cersei didn't care for the girl's comfort, she never wanted the bastards in the keep in the first place, partly because they looked too much like Robert and it could raise questions (which it had) and partly because it was an insult against her for him to bring them here. It didn't matter that it was only his female bastards, his male ones kept far away from her, she hated them all the same. They were constant reminders that Robert had never given her a chance even when she had given him chances. She had worshiped him, gave herself to him happily and he gave her a drunken first night and a dead woman's name on his lips. She especially hated those little wenches born of her cousin, Ambyr. Cersei had wanted to wring her by her neck, cut her golden tresses, strike her down and rip everything she held dear from her cold, trembling fingers but settled for her father doling out punishment to his sister's daughter in the form of a marriage that lowered her station and yielded her no lands or titles. Ambyr would probably be very smug when the truth about she and Jaime was let out. Cersei put the thought aside as she reached her second son, Ser Osmund trailing behind her.

"Go away." She ordered the dark-haired girl. She could never tell Ora and Argella apart and she didn't care to. The girl scurried off with relief clear on her face while Joffrey shot his mother a look of annoyance.

"I was talking to her." He complained.

"There are more important things than you indulging your vices." He gave her a bored look in response.

"You need to stay close to me and Tommen tonight." She told him, her voice lowered.

"Why?"

"Because I said so, Joff." He rolled his eyes in response to that.

"I'm a prince, I can do as I like." Cersei reigned in her anger so it did not show on her face as she grabbed his hand tightly.

"I don't have the time or patience to explain to you in a way you would understand that you and I are in danger, the same kind of danger that befell your uncle. I am trying to keep you from the grave, my son, so for once do as I say without question or complaint." Joffrey stared after her incredulously but as her face remained serious she noticed some fear begin creeping in and he allowed her to drag him across the room close to where Tyrion and Tommen were standing with Ser Osfryd and Ser Osney by one of the doors the former was tasked with guarding, the door they would escape through. The Kettleblacks would be she, her brother and her sons’ protectors from now on once they made their way to the docks and then to Myr, to Taena, to safety. They were not her first choice any more than Tyrion was but they were what she had and she was going to keep them close until she didn't need them anymore. Tonight though, she needed them more than ever.

**~*~*~**

"You don't have it." Jon heard behind him as he watched the couples on the dancefloor from the sidelines. He turned and saw Elia approaching him.

"What's that?"

"The crown, you don't have it. I spent an inordinate amount of time twisting that thing together so I could crown you." Jon fought the urge to blush as he answered.

"I thought it would have a happier home with my sister, she can appreciate it more than me, but I do have this." He said, pointing at his jerkin where a winter rose and a gray rock rose were pinned over his breast courtesy of Sansa.

"I suppose I will just have to settle for that much." She replied with a slightly impish smile. Jon stared at her for a moment before looking down and looking away.

"What's the matter?" She asked immediately. Jon wondered if he should tell her but she had not done anything that would make him not trust her and he didn't just want to leave her behind with no word and things left unsaid between them. He glanced around himself before stepping closer to her.

"I'm leaving tonight." Elia gave him a confused look.

"Why?"

"I don't know, I'm not sure. My father wants all of us out of the capital tonight." Elia looked perplexed and Jon could practically see wheels turning in her head. Curiously she glanced over at Princess Myrcella and then King Robert before looking back to Jon.

"Maybe it will be better if you're gone, especially if your father thinks that it is best." Jon nodded in agreement though he felt a spasm in his chest.

"I agree." They stood silent for a moment before Jon worked up the courage to speak once more.

"I have enjoyed your company during my time here. Getting to know you has been a highlight of this trip." Elia stared at him for a long minute before taking an uncharacteristically timid step towards him, almost as if to see how he would react. He watched her with interest as she came closer. He realized what she meant to do just before her lips were pressed against his. He was surprised at the softness of it. She was always overtly flirtatious, and he saw past it but it still surprised him. She pulled her lips slowly from his but remained in his space. She stared up at him with her warm brown eyes boring into his gray ones.

"You'll write to me when you reach Winterfell, I should be in Sunspear by then."

"You're leaving the city as well?"

"Perhaps it's overstaying it's welcome with all of us foreigners, but I have a feeling Trystane didn't just come to visit Myrcella so much as to take her back and I will have no reason to remain here once that happens. Maybe you can take me on one of your trips. I would like to see some place new, I think." Jon smiled in return, happy that she did not want to abandon their relationship after all.

"I would like that."

**~*~*~**

Sansa tried not to make herself stick out as she waited for the perfect moment for she and her family to leave. She looked around at the Great Hall and couldn’t help but feel more disillusioned than she had before. She had so wanted to be here when she was younger, to live here, to be a princess and then a queen. It took years for her to realize that all those childish fancies were little more than follies and even now it was a harsh lesson that no one but her family could be trusted. Not even the royal family. The feast would soon hit its halfway mark though, everyone around them getting good and drunk, and once the musicians struck up their third rendition of “A Cask of Ale”, they would leave the South behind and find safety once more in the North. Then it was just a matter of telling everyone the truth, including Mother and Jon.

She was not sure how they would react to the truth. Perhaps they’d be angry, perhaps hurt but the worst thing Sansa could think of is that nothing would change, that her mother would still hate Jon and Jon would still be distant and cold with her and they would not be able to build bridges to one another for the sake of their family. Maybe Sansa was deluding herself though, maybe it was too late already.

She was ripped from her thoughts as a soft hand landed on her arm. Margaery walked around in front of her, an apologetic look on her face.

“I’m sorry for startling you. I called your name and you did not respond.”

“I was in my head, forgive me.” Margaery nodded in understanding before looking at her seriously.

“Is it done then?” She asked in a quiet voice.

“For now. Before the night is done, the city will be free of wolves but until then…” Marge nodded her understanding once more.

“What about you? I don’t want you to stay here and risk any harm after you helped me.”

“I’ve already convinced Renly that perhaps it is time we return to Storm’s End to check on things there. He is still its lord as well as Master of Laws. I think he has agreed. I’ve also told him I want the babe born there so I won’t be returning here until after they are of an age I feel comfortable travelling with.” Sansa nodded, some relief coming to her. She did not know that she would have peace of mind if she was safe and Margaery possibly wasn’t. She stepped forward and hugged her friend.

“Thank you again for telling me the truth. You didn’t have to.”

“You are my friend, I did.” The older woman said, pulling away from her.

“Be safe.” She whispered to her before walking off. Sansa watched her go, trepidation still rattling her bones but she held heart.

 _Everything will be alright_ , she promised herself and repeated it like a mantra in her head.

**~*~*~**

Arya didn’t want to be at this feast, didn’t want to be in this castle or this city surrounded by these people. She sat at one of the tables that had been pushed away, watching sourly all the happenings around her. King Robert was seemingly drunk already and was fondling one of the buxom maids. Queen Cersei was huddled in a corner with her two younger sons, her brother and three guardsmen, the Kettleblack brothers. Princess Myrcella was on the dancefloor with Prince Trystane, the same as Bran and Lady Shireen and Robb and Domeric who danced with various ladies since neither Sansa or Arya found themselves on the dancefloor. Jon was on the fringes talking with Elia, and kissing her apparently, while her father was mingling and making his presence known and Rickon, though unseen, was probably under a table with Shaggydog. Arya took a moment to worry, it would make their retreat from the hall more noticeable to have a giant, black direwolf tagging along with them but they’d have to stagger their movements then. They could send Rick and Shaggy out first with Robb to not draw attention to themselves. Robb had been forcing Rick and Shaggy out of the hall the last few nights when he happened upon them. Sansa, Bran and Dom could leave next, as Sansa had been leaving all of the feasts early anyway. Then Arya and Jon could go with their father,

 _And he is Jon's father, no matter what anyone else says. He was raised with us, he’s our brother._ She thought furiously. She was stewing in anger at this point, directed at so many people that if she lashed out, then it would engulf everyone so she kept it inside and argued with herself. It was better for everyone that way.

She continued sitting in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest as if to keep the fire kindling deep in her soul held in. She looked up as a bulky figure made its way into her line of sight. She glared hard at Prince Gendry as he had the gall to approach her after all he had done.

“My lady.” He said with a small bow.

“What do you want?” She asked venomously. He looked disappointed at the tone but she didn’t care, let him be hurt and disappointed the way she was.

“Your sister tells me I may not be graced with your presence after tonight.” Arya continued glaring at him.

“I hoped that if this is truly the last time I see you that you might honor me with a last dance.” Arya looked at him incredulously.

“Go away.”

“Arya—”

“No.”

“I’m just trying to say—”

“I don’t care what you have to say. Leave me alone.” Gendry grabbed a chair beside her and sat down, leaning down so they were in each other’s line of vision.

“I know that what I did hurt you—”

“It didn’t hurt me because I never cared enough about you for you to hurt me.” She spat back and almost regretted the lie but not enough to take it back or feel remorse for saying it.

“You don’t mean that.” She didn’t bother deigning that with an answer.

“I’ll be glad to be away from this city when I leave, to be far removed from liars and backstabbers and manipulators. Nothing will give me greater joy.” Gendry continued staring at her as she pointedly looked anywhere but him, she wanted him to leave her be. She was angrier with him than she could remember ever being with anyone else and even more than angry, she was disappointed. She hadn’t wanted to have anything to do with him when she was first made to come to this city and he had managed to weasel his way past her defenses, make her view him as a friend and perhaps something more, only to find out it was all a ruse, a lie. And yet, annoyingly, having him this close still made her heart stutter ever so lightly. That only made her angrier and want to hit him, lash out at him, make him feel even an ounce of the pain and confusion roiling around inside of her.

“If that is how you feel, I cannot blame you. I haven’t given you much reason to feel otherwise.” Arya wanted to hit him for that statement because he had given her reasons to think he was different only to pull it all away in an instant.

“I guess I just want you to know that it was different for me. I wasn’t lying when I was with you, I wasn’t just trying to distract you. You may not believe me and you don’t have to, I can’t make you. I just… I feel—”

“Arya, it’s time to go.” Ned said, coming up to them in something of a hurry and cutting between their conversation. Arya looked up at her father in slight confusion.

“We’re supposed to leave in small sections to not draw attention. Rick and Robb are supposed to go first.” She pointed out hesitantly, glancing at Gendry with distrust. Her father shook his head.

“We need to leave now.”

Arya wasn’t sure why her father was throwing their plan to the wind. They were supposed to be waiting until “A Cask of Ale” played a third time to leave but it wasn’t “A Cask” playing, instead it was… it was “The Fury” and suddenly she could understand her father’s haste.

**~*~*~**

As soon as the song began to play, a feeling of dread and malcontent filled Ned’s soul. Signs and portents were not things he held too, he wasn’t superstitious but hearing “The Fury” by the tents was one thing and hearing it at a feast was another. It was not a jovial song to be played at a function lively with drink and dance. It chronicled tragedy, war and loss. It could mean nothing, he could be overreacting, but Ned didn’t want to stick around to find out. He first went to the men who had travelled to the city with him and alerted them to be ready to leave once he and his children had left the hall, then he made his way as quickly to Robb as he could where he was dancing with Lady Rosamund Lannister.

“I’m sorry to interrupt but I have need of my son.” Lady Rosamund and Robb both looked a little startled at his presence, but she drifted off.

“Gather your brothers please, we need to go now.” Robb looked at him with unvoiced frustration, like he wanted to question him about a multitude of things, but he held his tongue and went over to Bran and Shireen while Ned walked over to Arya who sat at a table with Prince Gendry.

“Arya, it’s time to go.” Ned said, not even bothering to offer any courtesies to the prince. The dread was setting in deeper and deeper as the singers began crooning about the Stormlands’ fury, the grief of the Gods who could never control this fury or bring down low again Durran’s blood.

“We’re supposed to leave in small sections to not draw attention. Rick and Robb are supposed to go first.” She pointed out hesitantly, glancing at the prince. Ned shook his head.

“We need to leave now.”

She stared at him for a moment before the music made itself known to her as well and she stood up wordlessly, following him over to Sansa who was already making her way over to them clutching Domeric’s hand.

“I heard it too.” She whispered as she reached them. Ned clutched onto his girls, hoping desperately that they weren’t noticed by anyone who wasn’t meant to notice them as they met up with Robb, Bran and Jon.

“Where’s Rickon?” Ned asked.

“I couldn’t find him.” Robb replied.

“He must be underneath a food table with Shaggy.” Arya guessed.

“I checked them, he wasn’t there.”

“We have to go.” Sansa said, nervousness clear in her voice. Ned’s mind raced with what he should do. The song drummed on, talking about Durran defying the Gods, rebuilding his castle over and over again to challenge them just as Robert challenged Rhaegar to one-on-one combat.

“Okay, you all go and I’ll stay and look for Rickon.” He decided quickly.

“But—”

“No buts. Just go.” He ordered. He watched his children begin ushering towards the exit and he turned to look for Rickon among the dancing patrons and many tables. He had told his youngest to stay close to his siblings but Rickon never did like to listen to reason. He spotted a mass of black under the wine table. Rickon and Shaggydog. He began walking towards them but just as he did, the music stopped abruptly and Robert’s voice boomed through the room.

“Lord Stark!” Ned felt his stomach flip the barest amount, enough to make his discomfort increase.

“Your Grace.” He replied back respectfully, his quiet voice carrying through the suddenly silent hall.

“You and yours are turning in early, I see.”

“We are not used to such constant festivities up north, it is tiring for us, Your Grace.” Robert and Ned traded a look between them and Ned’s heart lurched in his chest. If Ned hadn’t been sure if Robert knew before, he was sure now. He had been sure back on the tourney grounds when Jon was crowned and Robert had stared at him like he wanted to stomp down from the dais and choke him right then and there. But in this moment with them locked in a silent staring match, Robert’s blue eyes seemed darker under the firelight and he reminded him more of the Demon of the Trident than his best friend.

“Of course. It’s a shame you would leave before I made my announcement however. Return all of you to your father so you can hear me clearly.” Ned watched his children reluctantly shuffle back over to him. The door they were going to go through was shut by one of the kingsguard and he stood by it to guard it. His heart beat harder in his chest. He found himself standing in front of his kids protectively, as if he could stop what was going to happen but the wheels were already in motion.

“Jon Arryn was a dear friend to both myself and Lord Stark. He was as a father to us, he raised us together as brothers. When Jon died and left his position as Hand of the King vacant, there was only one person, one single person in the entire realm who I could think to fill the position, who could measure up to Lord Arryn and that is Lord Eddard Stark." The guests in the room began to applaud, though it began slowly and hesitantly.

"To Lord Stark, the new Hand!" Someone in the crowd said and the guests crowed the same, taking a sip from their goblets. Ned did not relax. The guests were seemingly going to go back to their business, but Robert continued.

"Yes, a good man Lord Stark is. An honorable man. I fought side by side with him through many a battle. We took a dynasty down together, saved the realm from a mad man together. It would stand to reason we should be running the realm together as well. You are my brother, Ned. You're the brother I chose." Robert paused again and stared at Ned across from him, his eyes still dark. His gaze slowly moved from Ned to Jon who stood just beyond his shoulder, his eyes blazing with dangerous intent. 

"Robert, please don't." Ned pleaded. Robert looked back at him and Ned hoped against hope that he would drop this, that he would see reason and not do something that could not be taken back.

"It breaks my heart to do this to you Ned, you are my friend. But what kind of a man would I be if I let the _thing_ that killed the woman I love simply walk out of this city?"

"It wasn't his fault." Robert's face darkened even more, impossibly so.

"My lords, my ladies, we have traitors in our midst." The crowd began to murmur amongst themselves, unsure as to what was going on.

"Lord Stark, you knowingly have harbored a fugitive of Targaryen blood safe within Winterfell's walls. You lied to your king and the realm, claiming that he was your bastard son but that was never the truth. Jon Snow is not your son, he is the offspring of Rhaegar Targaryen, begotten on my betrothed, Lyanna Stark, through false and nefarious means." Robert proclaimed, his voice ringing throughout the room. There was gasps in the crowd and even more murmuring. Ned was thrown off-kilter to hear it finally said from Robert's mouth.

"Beg pardon, Your Grace, but that's ridiculous. Of course Jon is my father's son, he's our brother. Have you any proof to substantiate such a claim?" Robb scoffed.

"You'll get all the proof you need during the trial." Robert retorted.

"Father, tell them." Robb all but demanded. The words seemed to turn to ash in Ned's mouth under Robert's glare and the penetrating stares of everyone in the room.

"Well?" Robert asked.

"He was a babe who didn't know anything of the world, he didn't—" Robert cut him off with an angered exclamation. With a nod from the king, several guardsmen and Baratheon knights drew their blades and started making their way towards the family. The Stark guardsmen in the room drew their swords as well, moving in quickly to defend them. And then chaos erupted around them.

Before Ned could even think to tell his men to stand down, the group came to blows. Clashing swords rung throughout the hall, as metal met metal and blood was spilled. The fights were scattered throughout the room but getting closer and closer to the family and boxing them in so they couldn't escape through the doors, even if they weren't guarded. Ned's men were outnumbered, he knew they wouldn't be able to win but they were putting up a hell of a fight. Any time one of Robert's men got close to them, one of Ned's was there to protect them.

Robb had drawn his sword as well when one of the Baratheon men had gotten past their defenses and made for a shell-shocked Jon. He and Robb got into a scuffle. Robb largely dominated the fight, but his opponent got one lucky swing in and drew blood. A black mass came bolting towards them from across the room and the man was suddenly swept from view as Shaggydog attacked him, ripping his throat out in one swift move. The direwolf was wild and full of bloodlust as he ran at a Baratheon guard who had just fell yet another of Ned's men and grabbed the man by the leg, slamming him into a post with a sickening crunch. He was immediately on a third man, his hand ripped right off his body with brutal force and his throat opened as well. There was blood now surrounding Ned and his family, it was all so surreal that he could hardly comprehend what was happening around him. It was the pained whine of Shaggydog that drew him back to himself. There was a crossbow bolt going through the direwolf's back, through his shoulder. Another one was fired from one of Robert's men, hitting the wolf's leg next and drawing another cry of pain from him. 

"Shaggy!" Rickon cried, appearing from out of nowhere and running towards his direwolf but before he could get to him another of Robert's men caught him and held a dagger to the struggling boy's neck. 

"Surrender peacefully, my lord. Call off your men and your wolf and the boy won't be hurt." Ned stared at Rickon, who didn't seem to care about the present danger to himself so much as to his direwolf. Shaggy was whining pitifully. Ten out of the fifteen men he brought with him were bleeding out on the floor. There was no way for them to go anywhere by way of force, all of his children could die if he even tried. There was no choice.

_I'm sorry, Lyanna._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The climactic chapter, I worked really hard on this one. I knew how I wanted it to go before I even wrote the previous chapters, it was just a matter of getting here and I'm glad I finally managed it. I suck at writing combat scenes, so I tried to keep that part mercifully short but I hope it was effective all the same.
> 
> Next POV: Gendry


	22. Gendry VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry must begin to face the consequences of the decisions he, and those around him, have made but he gains a peculiar new ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait, but here is a long chapter to make up for it. Hope you all enjoy.

The city bustled about at its normal pace as Gendry stared out of his bedroom window, observing life outside the castle walls. The sight was as familiar as it was every other day: people sold their wares, drunkards stumbled into taverns, whores hung outside of brothels beckoning to prospective patrons, beggars panhandled in the streets, business went on as usual. That felt wrong in a way. After what had happened, he expected some seismic shift to have taken place in the city, but everyone went about their daily lives as if everything was the same and the city had not been turned completely on its head only three days prior.

That in and of itself felt unreal, that it was only three days ago that he watched his father’s men beset the Starks and take them into custody, only three days ago that his father had discovered his mother, uncle and brothers’ disappearances from the city along with the Kettleblack brothers, only three days ago that he had ordered Gendry and Myrcella to be confined to their rooms. Since then, Gendry had not been made abreast to the goings-on of the keep. He was brought food three times a day, he was allowed books to read and a parchment and quill to write on but had no visitors or access to real communication. He could not help but stew in worry. He didn’t know what was going on with Myrcella or Arya and her family, he didn't know whether his father had seen fit to crush them all while Gendry had been locked away from the world with nothing but his mind and ample time to create nightmarish scenes in his head of the slaughter of his family. His dreams were haunted. He would dream of Myrcella’s head smashed to bits just like Uncle Jaime, her curly blonde hair covered in blood and brain matter, and he would wake sweating and terrified. He would dream of his father finding his mother and brothers before they could get to safety and raining down fiery hell on them while Gendry was powerless to stop him.

He wished for a reprieve from the uncertainty of it all, but when on the third day Ser Meryn appeared and informed him of his father’s summons, apprehension settled into his gut like a stone. The kingsguard's hand was on his sword and Gendry knew he wasn’t being given a choice. He had never liked Ser Meryn very much. He was one of his mother’s picks, a man of abhorrent predilections whose loyalty was to his mother and who often encouraged Joff's vices in ways Gendry chastised. He had never let his disdain for the man go unvoiced. There were times when he and his Uncle Tyrion would insult the false knight to his face. Gendry was sure he remembered that now and would not hesitate to use his sword against him.

Ser Meryn frog-marched him to the small council’s chambers, obviously taking delight in having this power over Gendry.

“I’ll remind you I’m still the crowned prince and I’ll remember this, Ser.” He spat at the man after a particularly harsh shove.

“As far as the king is concerned, you may well be another filthy bastard of the queen’s.” The knight retorted, opening the door and shoving him inside so he almost stumbled to the floor. When he righted himself, he surveyed the room with trepidation. His father sat at the head of the table glaring at him. Uncle Renly sat on his left side, his face not showing amusement for once. Uncle Stannis sat on his right, his face chiseled from stone. Baelish sat beside Uncle Stannis, his lips tilted in the barest of smirks. Lord Varys sat beside Uncle Renly, his face blank and unassuming. Grand Maester Pycelle sat beside Lord Baelish, his lips quivering as he kept glancing back at his father and at the various faces around the table.

Gendry did not wilt under the glares of the men in the room. He straightened himself, fixed his clothes and stood tall with his hands behind his back. Now amusement tinged with pride alighted Uncle Renly’s face.

“Where is she, boy?” His father asked, his voice gruff and demanding.

“I don’t know who you mean.”

“Don’t play dumb, your whore of a mother, where did she and her illborn bastards run off to?”

“I don't know.” Gendry answered truthfully. Robert stood abruptly, his chair falling to the ground with the force of his movement. He stomped over to Gendry, looking for all the world like a stag ready to lock antlers with another. He used his meaty hand to grab Gendry’s face roughly, squeezing his cheeks so his teeth pressed painfully into the soft tissue of his mouth, and forced him to his knees. Watching the older man whore, eat and drink his way to an early grave had made Gendry forget how strong his father truly was. He was still the man who slayed Rhaegar Targaryen at the Trident, who snuffed the Ironborn Rebellion out underneath his boot.

“You think this is a game? Do you believe that I will allow myself to have been humiliated by that golden-haired cunt and demand no recompense for it? As deceitful as she is, for all I know she’s passed you off as mine as well. Don’t believe yourself safe just because you have similar coloring to me, boy. Where is she?!” Gendry could taste blood on his tongue as his teeth cut into the inside of his cheeks.

“I do not know.” Gendry forced out emphatically. He felt his heart lurch as his father moved his hand from his cheeks down to his neck, but before he could squeeze the life out of him as he feared he would, Uncle Renly’s voice cut through the silence of the room.

“Brother, I think you can dispense of the show of strength now. We are all sufficiently fearful of you.”

“I don’t need you of all people telling me what to do.”

“Gendry is your heir, your only legitimate heir. My research along with Lord Arryn’s brought no evidence forward that would suggest otherwise. Besides, he looks too much like you in your youth and Renly to be anything besides a Baratheon.” Stannis said, his voice the same monotone frankness as it always was despite technically defending Gendry.

“Unless you mean to accuse myself or Stannis of consorting with your wife, Gendry is your son. You’d be a fool to do him irreversible harm. Despite your many bastards, he will be your enduring legacy.” Gendry looked up at his father, wondering if his uncles’ words had saved him or not. His fingers stayed pressed against Gendry’s throat for a moment before he let go and walked away slowly, leaving Gendry to sag to the floor in relief.

“Varys?” His father asked, stopping to stand next to Uncle Renly.

“No word yet. We’ve scoured the city and I’m quite certain she is not here. I have my little birds on alert throughout all of Westeros, but along with the Kettleblack brothers being missing, is a ship that was purchased by Ser Osmund, _The Black Pot_. I do believe they are aboard the ship and I am making sure an eye is kept out for it, so it may be searched for Cersei Lannister and Joffrey and Tommen Waters.” The enigmatic man relayed dutifully as Gendry rubbed his throbbing cheek soothingly and swallowed the blood pooling in his mouth.

“I am already drafting a letter to be sent to Lord Tywin in order to summon him to the city to answer for the crimes of his children. I will need you to read it over before it can be sent, but then we will be able to deal with the matter of the Lannisters in the dungeon and the other Westermen in the city. I’m sure it will be of great interest to Ser Kevan and Ser Deacon Lannister what has become of their sons. They will be good bargaining chips to keep the Westerlands in line.” Lord Baelish added, unprompted.

“Ye— yes, I do believe Lord Tywin will be, uh, more apt to negotiations with hostages to bargain with, especially the children of his dead brothers, Tyrek Lannister and Joy Hill. Even if not his children, he did graciously take them under his wing. H—his house’s reputation will take a hit from the truth of his son and daughter’s incest. He would be most intelligent to not waste an opportunity to escape this most unfortunate situation with his honor intact.” Grand Maester Pycelle said. Gendry rolled his eyes at how careful he was to not insult his grandfather during that little diatribe.

Just as Gendry pushed himself up, the door to the chambers opened, revealing Ser Barristan escorting Myrcella into the room. Prince Oberyn came swaggering into the room behind her. Gendry glanced over at Myrcella as she stopped beside him. She met his eyes and Gendry could see the anger, hurt and betrayal in her gaze before she effected a mask of blankness and turned to face the man she had spent fifteen years believing was her father.

“This is a private meeting of the small council only.” Uncle Stannis pointed out, eyeing Prince Oberyn with disdain.

“I’m well aware, but seeing as this involves my nephew’s betrothed, there is no other place I need to be but here.” Uncle Stannis’ teeth grinding was audible in the quiet room. The silence hung for a moment before Myrcella took a step closer to the table.

“Father—”

“You know the truth now. I’m not your father, child.” Father said, his tone hard but not as hostile as it was with Gendry. Myrcella shook her head in denial.

“I don’t believe it, it can’t be true.”

“It is. Your mother admitted as much in this very room, admitted to her affair with her brother, your father.” Myrcella kept shaking her head, rejecting the truth.

“Please Father, please, whatever I’ve done to make you say such horrible things, please forgive me.”

“Enough, child. Begging won’t change that this is the truth of things.”

“But how can you know? Children can look like their mothers over their fathers. It happens all the time. Shireen has the Florent look over the Baratheon. Lady Sansa has the Tully look over the Stark. Jon Snow, if what you say of his parentage is true, then he has the Stark look over the Targaryen. I will not deny it that Mother may have betrayed you and I will not defend her vile actions, but why are you so sure that I am not your daughter? Because my hair is fair instead of dark?” Myrcella said desperately.

“My own daughters vary wildly among themselves. My two eldest favor me greatly, as do three of my four younger girls, olive skinned with black eyes. But Dorea has a darker skin tone than either myself or her mother, favoring my Norvosi father’s skin tone more. There is also the example of my Tyene, who has fair-skin, blonde hair and blue eyes like her mother. After her is my Sarella with the dark, ebony skin and curly, rough textured hair of the Summer Isles rather than Dornish traits with brown eyes. They are complete opposites of each other and myself, but still have my blood running through their veins. My sister's son was his father's image while Rhaenys took from Elia and had only Rhaegar's eye color. Genetics can express themselves strangely, I learned that well enough during my studies at the Citadel. Why could they not have with Myrcella?” Prince Oberyn asked, his voice equal parts serious and curious.

“Jon Arryn and I met with 12 of the 20 bastards we know of as Robert’s, including both sets of his twin girls here in the keep and Edric Storm, who himself has Florent genes just as my daughter does, and none of Robert’s illegitimate children favor their mothers. None. All are dark-haired and blue-eyed just as Gendry is and Steffon was. Even without the coloring, there are no shared features between Robert and any of Cersei’s younger children. No passing resemblance. Why should Robert’s bastard daughters bear resemblance to him and not his legitimate one? They are all copies of their mother, with nothing of their father, because Jaime Lannister was her male double and so all their children are the same as them.” Stannis said plainly in response to the naysaying.

“For whatever reason, my dear, Cersei has left you behind. Evidence of her adultery. Her actions tampered with the line of succession, thus constituting treason. You understand, don’t you, that your existence is a crime?” Uncle Renly said, his voice softer as he stared at Myrcella with pity.

The girl’s eyes were glistening with tears as she approached the king with measured steps.

“I don’t know what research was done, what hours were spent sifting through hair colors and lineages. I don’t know how you must’ve felt learning Mother cuckolded you. I don’t know what the law books say must be done with someone like me. I only know how I feel and how I’ve felt for fifteen years. We have spent fifteen years together. We have shared fifteen years of memories and love and precious moments as father and daughter. Have I ever disappointed you or moved you to anger? Have you ever felt like I was trying to commit some type of treason, to muddy the line of succession, like I was only doing Mother’s bidding? Have you ever doubted me, or felt that I doubted you?” Myrcella asked until she was standing directly in front of Father, closer than Gendry felt comfortable with, staring up at the large man with tears silently streaming down her cheeks. Robert stared at her with conflicting emotions on his face: anger, remorse, disgust, pity, hatred, sympathy, fury, love.

“What do you want from me, girl?”

“I want you to look me in the face and tell me that none of these past fifteen years matter to you anymore, that I don’t matter to you anymore.” Gendry watched unsure as his father stared at Myrcella silently for a long while before he turned away from her and returned to his chair, picking it up and sitting down heavily in it. He stared at the crying teen for a few seconds more before turning his eyes to Prince Oberyn.

“I want her to be on her way to Dorne tonight and I don’t want to see her in this city again.” Prince Oberyn nodded, his face giving nothing away.

“I will send her to Sunspear with Trystane and Arianne tonight.” The prince approached Myrcella and placed an arm around her shoulder, leading her towards the door. She threw one more pleading look back at Father, hoping perhaps for some kind of validation or soft word but he did not look her way again and she let the Dornish prince lead her out. Gendry turned to follow them, but he stopped and turned back to his father.

“What of the Starks?” He asked. He did not know what became of them after they were arrested and he was confined. His father stared at him darkly. It was Uncle Renly who answered.

“Lord Stark and four of his five children are confined in the tower past Traitor’s Walk. The bastard is in the black cells and will remain there until his trial. Lady Arya has been given accommodations in the keep at the insistence of the king.” Uncle Renly looked somewhere between bemused and disturbed at the last statement. Gendry was startled that his father had chosen to show preferential treatment towards Arya by putting her in a room in the keep. He wondered why he would decide to do such a thing, but he knew in some way that was its own punishment since she was also separated from the rest of her family. And Jon Snow… the black cells were not what he deserved. Gendry looked at his father.

“Ever since I was a boy, you have plied me with stories of your childhood with Lord Stark. Often you call him your brother in all ways beside blood. He lied to you on something important, I understand, but if I do nothing else I will impress upon you and reiterate that Lord Stark is not just some minor lord or just the Lord of Winterfell, he is the Lord Paramount of the North and the Warden of the North. He is much beloved by his people and revered. His children are beloved as well, and that includes Jon Snow.”

“Jon Snow is a bastard born of rape that shouldn’t have been allowed to draw breath past the moment he murdered Lyanna to be brought into this world! I will make sure Ned understands that!” His father shouted back in reply.

“How will you possibly do that? He’s raised him as his own son for over 20 years, do you not believe that somewhere in that time he has grown to love him as a son and not just a duty to be done to honor his sister? He has fashioned him into a Northman who does his duty towards the North and has forged relationships with other prominent Northern families, including the Manderlys and the Boltons, two of the most powerful Northern houses besides the Starks. He is not a threat to my rule or to yours. He is not the type of man to long for a throne. If you kill him, or harm any of the Starks, their deaths will not go unanswered. We could be staring another rebellion in the face and it will be one much more organized than that of the Ironborn. The North will have the support of the Riverlands and possibly the Vale. The last time those three kingdoms allied themselves, they brought down a dynasty.”

“Are you suggesting I let that rapespawn live?” His father asked, his voice full of that famous Baratheon fury but Gendry did not let that fury come over him, he kept to the coldness of a Lannister and remained cool-headed to get his point across.

“I am saying that being a merciful king is just as important as serving justice. A leader who punishes those most loyal and devoted to him is not a leader that inspires devotion. Lord Stark has fought loyally at your side and helped you win and secure the Seven Kingdoms as yours twice over. Of all the lords in this kingdom, he would be the last to try to usurp you. The least that he and his family deserve is a fair trial to defend themselves.” He continued, stressing the word fair. Whether or not there was a trial, he knew there was little chance that it would be balanced. The scales were certain to tip in favor of his father.

“I think that you should consider installing judges to decide the fate of Jon Snow and the Starks rather than doing so yourself. I think you are too close to this case to rule unbiased. I would suggest Uncle Stannis, Prince Oberyn and a third judge of your choosing. But I do know for certain that this should not be handled with a hammer but a more delicate touch, Your Grace.” Gendry hoped he hadn’t overstepped his boundaries. His uncles appeared to be considering his suggestion and both Lord Varys and Lord Baelish were eyeing him with interested glints in their eyes, but his father’s face remained angry and red.

“The day I die is when you can start bandying about what you think as if it matters and what you suggest to be fair and just, but so long as I am king, don’t ever overreach and tell me how I should be running my kingdom again. The boy will die and anything else with Targaryen blood will follow.” Gendry narrowed his eyes.

“How do you mean?”

“I am renewing my efforts to have that Targaryen bitch and her half-savage children killed. I’m not taking my chances with any of the lot.” Gendry covered up his shock as much as he could. His father was going to ensure that they were thrown into one war or the other, whether it was with the other half of the continent or the continent across the sea. He opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself. It wouldn’t matter anyway, and he had something to do more important than try to talk sense to the madman his father had morphed into.

“Am I free to go or am I to be locked up again?” His father glared hard at him but gave no response.

“Go on, before his glare actually does strike you dead nephew.” Uncle Renly suggested. Gendry bowed his head and walked from the room. He made a beeline for Myrcella’s chambers, his heart in his stomach. When he pushed the door open, she was already in the process of packing her things away with the help of Rosamund, Amarei and Marissa. All four girls’ eyes were red-rimmed from tears. They looked up when they heard the door open. Myrcella turned back to her bags but Gendry nodded to the door to signal the other girls to leave. Rosamund did so dutifully but Amarei and Marissa stayed back a moment, hugging Myrcella’s waist. She returned their embraces wordlessly.

“I don’t want you to go, Myrcie.” Marissa cried.

“It isn’t fair.” Amarei added.

“I know. But sometimes life is not fair. I will write you if the king allows me to.” She reassured them before gently pushing them towards the door. Gendry pushed it closed behind them and turned to his sister, his face a mask of remorse.

“Myrcella—” He started, but she cut him off.

“You lied to me. You lied to me for weeks.” She said, her voice full of accusation.

“Will you please listen to me for a moment and let me explain?”

“Why? So you can feed me more of your lies? You listened to me worry and fret about what had changed and why Father was so distant with me, you played the fool whenever I asked and all the while you knew the truth. You knew that he wasn’t my father, that I and Tom and Joff are bastards born of incest between Mother and Uncle Jaime. You knew the truth and you listened to me anyway and then you lied to my face. Just like Mother has our entire lives.” Anger dripped from every word she said, anger directed at him.

“I was trying to protect you.” He protested.

“By treating me like I was too stupid to know the truth?"

"That's not what it was. The truth was so... I didn't want it to break you, Sister."

"You weren’t protecting me, you just didn’t trust me. You underestimated me, just like everyone else does. You thought I was a simple, simpering little girl with no mind or wits about herself.”

“That’s not what it was!”

“Yes, it was! Mother did the same all of my life. She never trusted me to think for myself, she only wanted me to be like her and if I wasn’t, it was because I didn’t understand, because I was too stupid to understand the way the world works. I know how it works now all too well. People like you and Mother use people like me in your schemes and when you hurt us, you say you were protecting us so that we have to forgive you for breaking our hearts.” Myrcella trailed off, her voice cracking with emotion. Gendry felt like a hand was squeezing his heart as he watched the pain written over her face. He took a step towards her, but she took a step back.

“I thought you were better than that. I didn’t think you would do this to me. Not you, Gen. You left me alone in the dark.”

“I was trying to—”

“Protect me?” Myrcella finished, cutting his retort off. She shook her head before she turned away from him, going back to folding clothes to stuff into her case. 

“I only did what I thought was the right thing to keep you safe and alive. For that, I can’t regret it but I’m sorry that I hurt you. It was never my intention, you have to believe that much at least.” Myrcella ignored him, keeping her focus on packing her case.

“You’re leaving tonight. I don’t know when I’ll see you again. If I'll ever see you again. I don’t want to leave things with you like this. Please.” He begged.

“Perhaps you should’ve thought of that sooner, when you were making your plans with Mother. Get out. I need to pack and get ready to leave before Father changes his mind and decides to punish me in Mother’s stead after all.”

“Myrcie, please.”

“Leave.” She said forcefully, the word both a command and a plea.

Gendry waited a moment more, hoping she would see reason, but she did not turn back to look at him. He turned away from her and walked to the door, his vision blurring in front of him. He could not help but to feel, that despite his best efforts, he had lost his sister forever after all. As he closed the door, he could hear her begin to sob and the tears he had been holding back fell down his face before he could stop them, not even caring that he was in the hall where anyone could see him. Once his father had caught him crying and he had chastised him harshly for it, telling him never to do it again. When he reached an age to fight in the tiltyard, his mother advised him that tears were a woman’s weapon and not a man’s. He had not cried often after that. He was a prince, heir to the iron throne and yet he was basically powerless.

He walked back to his bedroom with his head down, ignoring anyone who passed him by. He had detested being locked in this room, but there was nowhere else for him to go now. His mother was gone, his brothers gone, his maternal uncles gone and soon his sister would be gone as well. He still had his half-siblings, his father, his paternal uncles and Shireen, but it was not the same.

He stared out of his window even as the sun set and watched the empty courtyard fill with Dornish guardsmen, their horses and a wheelhouse. Princess Arianne came down the stairs with Prince Oberyn and behind them Myrcella came on Prince Trystane’s arm. Her face was solemn but he could tell that she had been crying from the redness of her eyes. He probably looked similar. His suspicion was confirmed by the sudden voice behind him.

“Unfortunately, tears won’t fix this, though I am glad to see you are not so hardened that you cannot be moved to tears.” He jumped a little and glanced behind him at Lord Varys as he stared at him with sympathy. Gendry inwardly rolled his eyes.

“I’m not in the mood for your cryptic conversations.” He stated before turning back to the window just in time to see Prince Oberyn walk back up the stairs into the castle and Princess Arianne close the wheelhouse door and pull off with his sister to leave the city.

“I’m not here for that. There is no need for it, I’ve gained the measure of you already.” Gendry turned around to face the lord fully.

“Tell my father I don’t know where Mother and the boys are and even if I did, he miscalculated sending you to needle that information out of me. I wouldn’t have told you anyway.” Lord Varys’ lips tilted into a smile that Gendry didn’t bother trying to read.

“Your father didn’t send me to make any inquiries of you.” Gendry stared at him wordlessly and Lord Varys’ smile widened.

“You don’t trust me, you are right not to. I admit, I’ve always been unsure of you and where you stand. Undoubtedly, you are a better choice for an heir than Joffrey ever would have been and will be a stronger king than Tommen would have been as well, but I still didn’t know if that would make you a good king. I’ve seen kings who have the right name, the right claim and start out their reign well enough and then descend into madness and obsession. I’ve seen it thrice over now, Aegon V with those dragon eggs he fawned over and burned down Summerhall trying to hatch, killing himself and his family. Aerys and his fascination with wildfire and all manner of cruelty. Now Robert and his obsession over Lyanna Stark. I’ve seen princes with the potential to save this country, who end up failing their people over fickle things like love and prophecy, like Rhaegar Targaryen. You, I have watched closer, wondering which side you would land on. I’ve seen your care for your family and for the smallfolk, I’ve also seen you manipulated by your family and I do wonder just how much of a backbone you will have to rule this country the way I think you want to, the way it should be run.” Gendry’s back straighten a little.

“I have enough of a backbone to tell you to get to the point. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to serve. Often people wonder about who I serve. Few times do they ever deign to ask me.” The spider stopped there and Gendry knew it was an invitation. A part of him wanted to just turn away but something pushed him to ask anyway.

“Who do you serve, Lord Varys?”

“The realm, my prince, someone has to. I see you look skeptical, I do not blame you. I am the master of whispers. My role is to be sly, obsequious and without scruples. It has served me well. It has kept me alive and abreast to several options for the prosperity of the realm. In the beginning, Jon Arryn was the best stabilizing force there was. He held back Robert's worst inclinations. As he grew older, I realized more and more with his death that the integrity of the throne would lessen and so I kept my eye and ear across the narrow sea. For a time, I began to believe Daenerys Targaryen would be our best option but where her methods work for bringing Essos to heel, they would find quite a hard time being as effective here in Westeros. This continent has had quite enough fire and blood. You were right, a hammer is not what is needed to keep the peace. I observed Jon Snow. He is a natural leader, that much is true, but despite the location of his birth, he is a Northman through and through and would be just as foreign to this realm as his aunt. He has the makings of a commander as well as a captain, perhaps a lord even, but not a king. So, I turned my eyes to you, Prince Gendry. I know you had made your friends among the smallfolk, they are all amicable with you. But they are just as amicable with Lady Margaery, and she certainly does not make her visits to the orphanage and the poorest in Flea Bottom to be charitable. You though, despite your parentage, don’t have nearly as much airs about you as your mother does or as much blunt force as your father. Still, that was hardly the only qualifier. I watched closely how you handled this situation. Not perfectly by any stretch of the imagination, but you are more aware than your father ever could be about what negative effects war can wrought. It is not a thing to be lauded and hoped for. If I am honest, your father has been itching for a war ever since the Ironborn Rebellion was put down. His relationship with Lord Stark quells that desire for a war with the North, but the Westerlands are still up in the air. Lord Tywin will hardly be happy that his eldest son was killed and his body fed to the livestock while his daughter and remaining son are now fugitives. Most of his grandchildren are fugitives or banished, leaving only you, tandem amount to a prisoner in this city. You realize that in these wars that your father foams at the mouth for, it is the common folk who suffer the most, who are crushed on the ground. You doubt where my true loyalties lie? Doubt it no longer. My allegiance is not with any king or queen, no prince or princess, not a dragon or a stag or a wolf, but with the people. The people who suffer under despots and prosper under just rule, those whose hearts you have managed to win and will have to fight to hold on to once the truth about your mother is let loose. I have no doubt you will manage to do it, but only if we manage to keep a war from raging on.” Gendry stood frozen, considering the plump man across from him. He didn’t trust Lord Varys, not as far as he could throw him, but he did not think the man was lying to him in this moment.

“How are we going to do that?”

“The Westerlands are a problem for another day, one I’m sure Lord Baelish can’t wait to inflame, but the North is one facing us right now. It was no mistake that Lysa Arryn's letters were mixed up, nor that your mother was the person he informed about Jon Snow. He thrives on chaos and he hopes the entire realm will descend into it so he may climb to power off the back of that chaos. We must make sure he doesn't have the opportunity to do so. The trial, though in name for the Starks and the boy, is really just for Jon Snow and will not be tipped in his favor. A trial is not the only option open to him though. Perhaps you might remind him of this.”

“What am I going to do? Just waltz into the black cells and talk to him?”

“Precisely.” Lord Varys produced a key from his sleeve and held it out to him.

“I have an arrangement with the goaler. He will direct you to the boy’s cell.” Gendry made himself move forward and take the key.

“There will be much work to be done for the realm in the coming years, my prince. I look forward to our next conversation.” Lord Varys spared him one more look, before sweeping out of his room in a cloud of fabric and perfume. Gendry watched him go before clutching the key in his hand. He wasted little time as he grabbed a cloak and then began to make his way to the dungeons.

The dungeons were not a place that Gendry made a habit to frequent. He had never had any need to do so before. He was not the one who doled out the king’s justice, nor did he have much say in the fate of prisoners as evidenced by his father’s sharp reprimand at the small council chambers. He had never had anyone he knew personally get locked away in a dungeon until now. More than a few times he would advocate for the smallfolk who were arrested and unfairly fined, but they were not as close to him as family or as intertwined with him as the Starks.

The dungeons of the Red Keep located underneath a squat, stout tower, had four levels, which Gendry always found queer. It wasn’t so with most castles. Some castles got creative with their prison system, such as the sky cells at the Eyrie, but for the most part dungeons were dungeons. Thanks to Maegor the Cruel each level of the dungeons of the Red Keep was delineated depending on the severity of the crime and the status of the accused.

The tower held rooms for prisoners kept in a degree of comfort, such as knights or lordlings who might be ransomed or high-profile highborn prisoners such as the Starks. When he reached the dungeons, he contemplated checking in on them, but thought better of it.

The first level had cells with high narrow windows for a light source where common criminals were confined together for crimes such as thievery, bribery, flagrancy and the like. Prisoners on this level were usually sentenced to spend some time in a cell before being let back out again or were punished in some other way depending on the number of offenses. Rarely were these prisoners executed. If they were not let go, they usually ended up at the Wall.

On the second level were smaller, personal cells without windows for highborn captives that were not as important as those kept in the tower. There were torches in the halls to cast light through the bars. This was where his father locked up his mother’s cousins, Tyrek, Brad and Lancel, and where they had been for over a month now with no signs of being let out any time soon.

The third level housed the black cells. The lowest level was used for torture. It was supposedly safer to go through the fourth level of the dungeons in darkness, because there were things there one would not wish to see. And yet Gendry thought the black cells might just be the worst of them.

They were small with no windows and solid, thick wooden doors studded with iron, which left the prisoners in darkness. There were no beds there, no buckets for waste, only unclean straw in the corner. The dark and the isolation was absolute, the cold bitter and deadly. The only light came when the goaler saw fit to feed the prisoners or if a visitor came with a torch, like Gendry held now. The black cells were meant for the most vile and dangerous prisoners, for murderers and rapists and men so evil, the Wall was too good for them. Jon Snow was not any of that, but there he sat, curled in a corner of the cell, shying away from the torchlight as Gendry entered his cell.

He looked a sight and it had only been a few days since he was thrown in here. There was dirt and grime on his skin, his hair was let loose and had grime in it as well. They had stripped him down so he was only wearing a thin shirt and pants. He was not shivering as much as a Southerner would have been, but the cold was obviously not comforting to him. He looked at Gendry cautiously as he saw him enter.

“I would stand to greet you, my prince, but I’m afraid it would take a little while to wake my body up enough to do so.” He said after a stretch of silence between them.

“There is no need.” Gendry replied. He stared at him for a moment more before pulling his cloak off.

“That’s not necessary.” Snow said as Gendry held it out to him.

“You need it more than I do. Take it, please. It will make me feel like I’m doing something.” Snow contemplated it before taking the cloak with a muttered thanks and covering himself with it.

“I should’ve brought water as well, maybe food. I wasn’t really thinking clearly. My apologies. I will bring some next time, if your trial is not soon. I expect it will be though.” Snow gave him an assessing eye.

“If you don’t mind my asking, why are you here? How did you even get here?”

“You have more friends than you thought. I came here to advise you.”

“Advise me? Do you have much experience with a situation such as mine, My Prince?” The Northman asked, his voice deadpan.

“I have experience with my father and with King’s Landing, more than you ever will, so heed my words. If this goes to trial, you are a dead man. My father very much wants to kill you. He blames you for Lyanna Stark’s death just as much as he blames Rhaegar Targaryen. He thinks you are nothing but dragonspawn, the product of rape. Whether or not that is true is for Lord Stark to say, but either way, you won’t win the trial. That does not mean it ends there. The Night’s Watch is an option, not an ideal one, but one available.” Snow chuckled humorlessly.

“I spent a good deal of time during my younger years trying to run off to the Wall, trying to be something more than Ned Stark’s bastard son. But the Gods fulfilled my wish, didn’t they? I’m not Ned Stark’s bastard, I’m Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark’s bastard, born of rape. I suppose I would fit in at the Wall, but if your father hates me as much as he hates Rhaegar Targaryen, do you really believe he would allow me to go to the Wall? Even if I left the city, I’m sure I would meet some accident on the road. It’s a long way from King’s Landing to Castle Black.” Gendry nodded.

“The Wall is not the better option of the alternatives. If it comes to it, and it will, you should strongly consider asking for a trial by combat. You can’t be denied it and if it is as my father says, and you were born through false means, then it should be up to the Gods to decide whether you deserve to continue to live or not. It’s your best bet, it’s what has the greatest chance of saving your life.” Jon let out another humorless chuckle.

“You really think my life is some precious thing to me? Why should I fall to my knees begging for mercy or turn myself into this city’s entertainment for a crime committed before I was even born and the sins of a man I never met and never will?”

“This isn’t a time to be prideful. You _will_ die.”

“It’s not pride, it’s dignity. It’s the only thing I have left down here, the only thing King Robert didn’t strip away during his little show at the feast. And I should trade it for a few more years of what exactly?”

“Of life with your family, with your father and your siblings. He didn’t strip everything away, he didn’t strip your family from you. They still love you, they still care. Your sisters, their only focus when they learned what was happening was getting you and the rest of your family to safety. And your father? He’s known to the entire realm as the most honest and loyal lord of my father’s. He put my father on a throne, but he put his honor and honesty aside for you because he cares about you as his son. That’s more than a lot of us legitimate children get from their fathers, much less bastards. All they cared about was protecting you, because you are still their family, that doesn’t change. Nothing can really change that. No matter what they do, no matter how horrible or disgusting it may be, no matter how much they hurt you or cause you to be hurt or hurt other people around you, you still love them, because they’re your mother, your father, your siblings, your family.” Gendry said, staring off into space a little. He was talking about Jon Snow and the Starks, but also his mother and his siblings. His mother had done many horrible things, even beyond the incest, and yet he still loved her. Even though she hurt him, lied to him, put him in a position where he hurt and lied to Myrcella, where his life was in danger as well as hers, Joff, Tom, Myrcie and so many others, he still loved her. And if he could still love a mother like Cersei Lannister and care for a brother like Joffrey, then he knew Jon Snow still loved Lord Stark and the lord’s children. He snapped out of his reverie, looking back to the bewildered man on the floor.

“Whether or not your life is a precious thing to you, it is to other people. If you were not in their lives, their lives would be miserable. Are their lives not a precious thing to you?” Jon opened his mouth to retort but closed it after a moment, looking away from the prince. Gendry figured he was done with the conversation then and turned to walk away but Snow’s voice stopped him.

“You knew, didn’t you? The whole time about me.” Gendry hesitated for a moment before nodded his affirmation.

“Were you using her?” Gendry didn’t hesitate to answer this time..

“No. Not me and not her. In the beginning, my mother wanted information but after that, no. I didn’t tell my mother anything she didn’t already know. And just so you know, Elia didn’t know as far as I can tell. I didn’t send her to distract you or anything. It was enough to have you in the city, you were trapped the moment you crossed into the city gates.” Jon Snow went silent again and this time Gendry did walk away. He was still not completely satisfied but he hoped the man took his words to heart. If he could do nothing else, he hoped he could salvage the mess he helped to make of things and get the Starks out of the city in one piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions and comments welcome.  
> Next POV: Arya


	23. Arya VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya must make the most of her situation in order to protect her family.

The room Arya was placed in was larger than the one she had claimed as her own when she first came to the city. The room itself irked her because its design was out of place with the rest of the castle. The walls were painted winter blue with gray wainscoting. There were busts and statues of direwolves on some of the shelves and the gray curtains were embroidered with winter roses. The large bed was covered in a multitude of pillows and had gray and white bed skirts and had a canopy of gray curtains attached to it. Across from the bed was a portrait of a woman who looked a lot like Arya and Jon and she could only assume that it was her aunt. She looked beautiful in the portrait but hardly like the wild, free woman she sometimes heard people describe her as.

Arya felt discomforted that the king had stuck her inside of this pseudo-shrine he built for a woman who had been dead for over two decades. She was even more discomforted to be separated from her family. She knew her father, Robb, Sansa, Bran and Rickon were being kept in the tower above the dungeons, locked in rooms much less ornate than the one she was in but still not a prison cell. Jon had been taken away first an hour after they were put into the room, despite their fights and protests. Jon hadn’t put up a fight when the guards took him, he had still been in shock and hadn’t said a word even as Robb and Father had engaged in a mostly one-sided shouting match. Sansa had surprisingly come to their father’s defense, even though she had expressed to Arya that she was angry with him herself, but she would not allow for Robb to place all the blame on their father. Arya sided with Robb. She was no longer upset with Sansa but her father, she had not forgiven at that point. Rickon did not help the cacophony of the room as he banged on the door, crying and demanding to know if Shaggy was okay. Bran spent his time trying to calm Rickon while Domeric focused on trying to comfort Jon in what little way he could. The guards bursting in cut through their argument. They took Jon wordlessly. A little over an hour after that, they came again and took Arya.

She fought against them, kicking, scratching, screaming, she even got a bite in before they unceremoniously dumped her in this bedroom. There was a guard posted outside the door who ignored her and her demands to be returned to her family. The serving girl who brought her a bath that night, one of Gendry’s bastard sisters, Ora, said the king ordered Arya be brought here and tended to. Ora brought her food periodically and drew her a bath every day. The wardrobe was fully stocked with clothing, all of them dresses to Arya’s dismay. Her breeches were taken away by Ora and she was forced to put the dresses on or go naked. She couldn’t help but think these dresses were probably ones her aunt would wear. Perhaps exactly her size. It was looser around Arya’s bosom and a bit too long, like they were made for a woman taller and more buxom than she and they were all gray, white or winter blue. It caused a shiver of disgust to go through her that the king stocked this room with dresses tailored to her dead aunt. He had not seen fit to impose his presence on her in the three days that had passed. Arya spent her time pacing the bedroom, trying to get information from Ora when she visited and staring out the window.

She sat perched there now. Night had fallen, and the city was moving around below her, undaunted by the events taking place in the Red Keep. She wondered if word had spread about what happened in the castle here. Her mother was probably still in the North oblivious to what was going on. A raven would never get to her or Wynafryd in time to make any difference. The room where she was situated overlooked the courtyard and had a view of the stables. She could see the stableboy, Kip, going into where they kept their direwolves and attending to them so she knew they were still alive, though she could not say for Shaggydog. She did not see anyone take his body away, so perhaps he survived the crossbow bolts. She hoped so, for Rickon’s sake. Losing Shaggy might render him completely untamable.

She had started a game to pass the time as she overlooked the city. She would watch people and make up stories about them. Sometimes the stories she conjured were horrible, stories meant to take her out of her own head and remind her that there were others in this world who had it worst than she did. Other times she would assign happy stories so she could wallow in self-pity, even if only for a moment. As she sat in observation, her interest was piqued when she noticed a host was beginning to coalesce in the courtyard. Some of the Martell guardsmen were bringing out their horses and the wheelhouse Princess Arianne brought with her into the yard. Trunks were being secured to the wagons they had as well. They were not being discreet about their departure, but they were being hasty.

She watched curiously as the beautiful Dornish princess made her way down the stairs, her uncle at her side. The two were locked in an intense conversation. After a moment Prince Trystane came out with Princess Myrcella on his arm and Rosamund Lannister a few steps behind her. Even from her vantage point, she could tell Princess Myrcella, who must be Myrcella Waters by now if the truth of her parentage was known, had been crying. Her eyes were red, her face was a mask of despondence and hopelessness, her shoulders sloped slightly, like she was walking with a weight about her. This new knowledge laid heavy on the blonde girl. The cheerful, gracious girl who first greeted Arya and her family on their first day in King’s Landing and had since then been nothing but sweet and amiable was like a distant dream.

Arya wondered if Jon felt what Myrcella was feeling. Was he being crushed under the truth that had been forced onto him? Was this paradigm shift too much for him? Had it ripped all the joy out of him like it had done with Myrcella? His truth was not as bad as the teen’s, he did not learn that his mother had been sleeping with her brother and conceived three children that she passed off as royals, but just like Myrcella, he had learned the man he called Father was not his biological parent and that his mother was not who he thought she might have been.

Arya also couldn’t help but think of Gendry in that moment. He was Cersei Lannister’s child as well, what had he felt when he learned the truth about his mother? Could such feelings ever be put into words? Arya had felt anger at her mother for some of her backwards thinking, sure, but she would not associate anything so taboo as sibling incest with her and if she was confronted with something like that, she did not know how she would react. She didn’t think she would react at all, she didn’t think she would face it, she would deny it. But if pushed into a corner and forced to defend her mother, despite whatever she had done, she would. Deep down, she understood Gendry. She had had three days alone in this room and it forced her to think through all the things anger and hurt had made clouded in her head.

She understood her father’s actions now, understood why he lied to protect Jon. She understood Gendry’s actions, understood why he lied to protect his siblings and mother. That did not mean she condoned their actions though, or that she was so easily forgiving.

Arya watched the former princess climb into the wheelhouse and mentally sent a good luck her way before the door unlatching broke her from the sight. Ora did not usually come this late. Arya stared at the door warily and tensed up when King Robert stepped fully into the room. She stood up, not liking sitting vulnerable and curled up in front of him. The two of them stared at each other for a long while. Arya watched him cautiously and uncertainly. He, in contrast, appeared to be undressing her with his eyes. His gaze started from the hem of her gray dress, which covered her bare feet, up to her slender waist, up to her flatter chest and then to her face.

“I thought you looked like her that first day you got here, hair all wind swept, wearing breeches, smelling of horse, but now… you look even more beautiful than she did. I hope everything is to your liking. I haven’t changed much about this room since I had it created. I wanted it to be special for her, but you look just as perfect in it. Well, what do you think?” Arya continued to stare at him. In the hallway, the second time he gave her the look he had on his face now, she was worried about putting her family in danger, but they were already in danger now. She was not as cowed or as inclined to mind her tongue.

“I’m not my aunt and I never will be, least of all for you. You stuck me in this room, surrounded by what you think she would have wanted. I don’t know what she wanted, I didn’t know her, but I’m not her. I don’t want this. I don’t want the stupid wardrobe full of dresses I hate wearing. I don’t want the stupid portrait of my bloody aunt staring at me as I sleep. I especially don’t want that stupid bed, full of seemingly every pillow in King’s Landing and surrounded by a dusty canopy, where you no doubt dreamt about fucking my aunt. All the countless direwolves in this room reminds me of is my family who is locked away and my family back home, whom I’d rather be with over stuck in this smelly, hot shitstain of a city! That’s what I think.” The king stared at her with a dumbfounded expression before his loud laughter boomed through the room.

“You have just as much fire in you as she did.” He said through guffaws. Arya rolled her eyes in annoyance.

_Why did I even try?_

“When will you release my family?” She asked in exasperation, changing gears. The king sobered up then.

“You’re worried about them. You needn’t be. Ned is my best friend, I would never harm him.”

“And yet he is locked in a prison cell.”

“He is in the tower, not the dungeons.”

“As dressed up as it is, it is still a prison.”

“I will let him and your siblings go once this business is done with. You have my word on that, my lady.”

“And does that include my brother, Jon? Will he be met with the same mercy?” A dark look that scared Arya more than anything overtook the man’s face. It wasn’t like anything she saw from him before. It terrified her.

“He is the thing that killed the woman I love. If it were up to me, I would’ve killed him in the Great Hall that night. Lucky for him, there is a small council. He will have a trial, the law mandates that much.”

“For what charges?” Arya asked incredulously.

“Treason, murder.”

“What treason and whose murder? Jon is one of the bravest, truest and most honorable men I know. He is not a Targaryen, he’s a Stark, no matter his name or his blood. He didn’t do anything wrong.” She protested. The king shook his head and began stepping closer to her.

“You don’t understand now. You can’t understand, because you have never been in love, but to have someone you call your own and then to have someone you trust, someone you call family, your own cousin take her away for his nefarious purposes and never return her alive, there is nothing to heal that wound. But damn it, I will make sure every piece of the person that killed her is wiped off the face of this Earth. That includes Rhaegar and every other white-haired cunt related to him. I know you grew up thinking him your brother, but he was just a dragon hiding among the wolves and one day he would have opened his maw and engulfed all of you in flames. Just like his grandfather did to Lord Rickard and Lord Brandon. Just like his father did to Lyanna. I love Ned like a brother. I’m saving him from the danger he can't see.” Arya shook her head, her anger gnawing at her stomach like a dog with a bone.

"You're not saving anyone, you're just trying to soothe your wounded pride. Both my aunt and Rhaegar Targaryen are nothing but dust now. It's 20-years too late to still use them as your excuses for your vices and poorly conceived actions. Jon is my brother. He is the man who encouraged and facilitated me being myself, even if it meant not being a lady. He is the man who has always stood by me, supported me, loved me, cared for me. He never tried to make me someone else to suit his selfish desires. He never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it. He provides for and protects his family, honors us, does his duty by us. My brother is worth ten of you, dragonspawn or not."  She said it in a calm tone, not betraying the rage inside of her. She did not speak to change his mind, no matter what she said the king would remain unmoved by her, but she would not let him leave this room without saying how she felt. He approached her until he was standing right in front of her. She felt only slightly intimidated by his height over her. Her fingers itched. She wished she had Needle. He raised a hand, brushing it lightly over her cheek, causing her to flinch away from his touch. He pulled his arm back and stared at her a moment more. He leaned forward towards her. Arya backed away, but she hit the wardrobe, trapping her. She held her breath as Robert continued to lean towards her until he pressed a kiss to her forehead, his beard irritating her skin.

“You’ll see. You can't see it now, but you’ll thank me one day and so will Ned.” The king declared before walking out of the room and leaving her behind to stew in solitude.

**~*~*~**

Three days became a week and then two weeks that Arya was locked away and she was getting more and more frustrated. She felt like some damsel from one of Sansa’s childhood stories, locked away in her tower waiting for some prince to come to her rescue. Arya never aspired to be Jonquil and certainly did not want a Florian. Her favored childhood stories consisted of the legendary commander Nymeria of Ny Sar, Queen of the Rhoynar, who brought her people to safety on ten thousand ships across the Narrow Sea. Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen, flying on their dragons and fighting alongside their brother-husband. The Mormont women of Bear Island, just as fierce and hulking as their men. The spearwives of the Freefolk, more independent and freer than any noblewoman could ever be. Her own ancestors, Branda Stark, the sister of Bran the Builder, who fought alongside him to defeat the Night’s King during the Long Night centuries before. Meggana Stark, the wife of King Theon Stark, who fought against the Andals with her husband and displayed the spiked heads of her victims on the shores to deter future invaders. Berena Stark, sister of Torrhen Stark, who with her bastard brother, Brandon Snow, led a mass exodus from the North following her brother kneeling to Aegon Targaryen, and helped to start the Company of the Rose, which still operated in Essos today. Arya was not a damsel, nor a cowering little girl, she was a wolf and she wanted to go home.

But at the same time, as much as those stories gave her strength to not lay down and languish in her own despair, force would not help her here. Sure she could whack the king over the head with one of the direwolf busts, but even if she got past the guard at her door, she would not be able to rescue her family on her own and she didn’t even know where Jon was. It was not force she needed now, it was smarts. She may not be Sansa, versed in the game of thrones and tutored by a player as proficient as Olenna Tyrell, but she was no fool either. She understood people, their desires, how they thought. The king had been visiting Arya everyday since that first time, trying to get close to her, trying to get her to warm to him. She knew what he wanted from her, he wanted her aunt and he decided she was enough of a replacement for her. Arya’s fierceness and her sharp tongue only engendered her to him even more. Her silence did not help either. If she didn’t talk, he would take long moments to just stare at her and the desire she would see in his eyes always made her sick to her stomach. Every day he would come and every day he would end his visit with a kiss to her forehead. She never raised a hand to him, she was not that stupid, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t have been deterred if she did. Doubtless, it would have reminded him of her aunt in some fashion or other. It didn’t help that he looked so much like Gendry that she could not help but think of the way he looked at her when she brought him back to his bedroom after their first night at the tavern or when they sparred next to the Blackwater Rush. Despite her lingering anger at the prince, she did not want those moments tainted by King Robert.

She needed to speed this process along, convince the king to hold the trial as soon as possible. She was sure wherever her brother was wasn’t pleasant and the king probably wanted to prolong his suffering, which was why the trial had not happened yet. She needed to think of those other women whose blood flowed in her veins now. Women like Lady Alarra Stark, Black Aly Stark, Queens of Winter such as Arsa, Raya, Rohanne, Lysara. Those women whose strengths were not in fighting or combat, but in intelligence, manipulation, observation and cunning. Even women like Wynafryd, who had in some ways manipulated Robb to secure their marriage. It was Ora who gave her the spark she needed to form a plan. She had come as she always did to bring Arya her dinner. The serving girl usually worked in silence, but that night she paused before leaving the room.

“He wants you.” Arya looked at her questioningly.

“The king, he wants you badly.” Arya rolled her eyes lightly.

“I am aware.” She replied plainly.

“I’ve seen the king turn his attentions to many a woman. They do not hold out as long as you have, but when the king wants something, he gets it. He is the king, ‘no’ is not a word pertaining to him.” Arya’s eyes widened a little.

“You mean…”

“He is not a rapist, m’lady, but he is a man. Men will only enjoy the chase for so long before being swayed one way or the other. I just hope that you are careful in how you proceed with him. Do what he wants, become who he wants, it will be easier for you that way.” The serving girl curtsied before scurrying from the room. Arya had ruminated on her words after that before an idea formed.

She did not pace the day she decided to enact her plan. She observed her aunt’s portrait and chose the dress from the wardrobe that was closest to it. It was a flowing gray wool with a white silk underskirt showing beneath. The gray wool was embroidered with snowflakes. The sleeves stopped just below her elbow and were tight but had white silk peeking out from beneath the sleeve, stopping a few inches below her elbow to brush harmlessly against her forearm. She requested the guard by her door send for Ora, something she had never done before, but the guard hadn’t commented. The maidservant came when called and only looked mildly surprised by Arya’s request to fit the dress she chose so it fit her better. Ora used her thread and needles to take it in at the bosom and stitch some of the gray fabric at the sides so it was not so overly long on her, though it still covered her feet. She requested a meal for two later in the evening, so it might still be warm when the king arrives and two flagons of wine. He would probably drink both. Her hair had grown since she reached the capital and she had had no time to cut it. It was just above her shoulders when she first left Winterfell, and now it was just above her breasts, long enough for her to braid it and let it hang over one shoulder in the customary Northern style like her aunt wore in the portrait. She took one of the winter roses from the vase and intertwined the stem in her braid, allowing the petals to rest just at the top of her braid. She was certain she resembled her aunt more than she had ever done before and this time it was purely intentional.

When the king came to her room that night, she sat waiting at the table, the food Ora brought covered in a bid to keep it warm. She stood when the king walked into the room. He froze upon seeing her. She watched as his eyes ravaged her, the arousal in them more than he had ever shown before. As she watched him, she could see that a bulge was beginning to form at the front of his pants. Inwardly, she was disgusted but also pleased. Her plan was working already.

“Your Grace.” She said, breaking the silence. She bowed rather than curtsied, she doubted her aunt would have been so proper if the king’s many stories about her were to be believed. He continued to stare at her dumbfounded.

“It strikes me that I have not tried to be understanding with you these past few weeks. It is a complicated situation we find ourselves in, actions made by people who died long before I was born. I have only been seeing things from my point of view and my perspective can only go so far. You loved my aunt dearly, I can tell as much from the stories you have told me over these past days. In truth, my father never talks about her so I have enjoyed learning this much about her. I thought, if you were inclined, we may talk more over a meal together, so I might better grasp where you are coming from.” The king snapped out of his haze then and slowly made his way towards her.

“You honor me, my lady.” She did not tell him to call her by her name, it was better if he did not ascribe a name to her, if he looked at her and saw Lyanna. She allowed him to pull her chair out for her with only a mild wrinkle of the nose, which drew a chuckle from him. They filled their plates with the roasted chicken and stuffed onions and some of the seasoned rice brought by the Dornish party. The king spoke to her of his day while they ate, mostly to complain about having to do his duties. She listened to him, sparingly speaking. It was better to let him ramble.

“Married to Cersei for twenty wasted years and I don’t think we ever sat down for a meal this peaceful.” He said as they pushed their plates to the side.

“I’m sorry your marriage was so unhappy. Was there never a time it could’ve been anything else? There are two years between Prince Gendry and Joffrey Waters, was she carrying on her affair the whole time?” She asked, reaching for her wine.

“Who can know with that nag? She was always so bloody secretive, and I gave her her space if it spared me her bothersome presence. Perhaps I could’ve… no, there was never a time. At the end of the day, she was merely Cersei Lannister and not who I wanted.” Arya paid attention to every word he said. There was some small doubt there with Cersei but nothing that he couldn’t banish from his mind.

“My aunt, if she had lived, do you think you would have taken the throne and made her your queen still?” The king let out a small smile.

“Lyanna would’ve never wanted it. She barely wanted to be a lady much less a queen, much like you in that respect.”

“I admit the lady’s life has never appealed to me, Your Grace.”

“Robert, please.” He said, reaching across the table to hold her hand. She wanted to snatch it away but pushed that desire to the side.

“Robert.” She repeated, swallowing her disgust as his thumb began massaging her hand.

“In the North, there is hardly time for much frivolity as there seems to be in the south. In my leisure time, I much preferred horseback riding, archery and sword training to embroidery as those seemed more applicable in case the worst should happen. I eventually came around on stitching as knowing how to sew one’s skin could mean the difference between life and death but the dresses, the parties, the gossip, it all seems very pointless to me.” His gaze had remained intense through the entire meal and it remained so now as he took her in.

“Yes, yes I agree.”

“Time, it must feel so different here in the capital. To me, it feels as if it has been a month locked in this room, not a couple of weeks.”

“I have spent years mourning Lyanna, a few weeks hardly seems significant.”

“And yet it is. Information is scarce to me in this room, but I wonder if there has been any word from my mother in Winterfell. She must be so worried, even if she is unaware of the complications we are met with.” She said, her tone light, gently reminding him that there was a world outside of this city effected by what he chose to do.

“A raven arrived today actually. She inquired as to when you all would be returning to Winterfell.” The king admitted.

“Hmm. She must be lonely. She never quite settled herself in the North. The warmth of the south still runs strong in her veins. I do miss her. I’ve seldom spent this long away from her.” She said, her tone purposefully wistful and her eyes welling up. It did not take as much effort as she thought it would take. Her emotions were real. She did miss her mother, she missed the North, she missed Fryd and the girls and the comfort of home. She stood up and made her way to the window. It caused a coil of discomfort to have her back to the rotund man, but she watched him approach her in the reflection of the glass. She made herself relax when he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“If your mother is truly what you want my lady, I would hardly want to be the man to keep you away from her.”

“I would never rest easy without knowing for myself what Jon’s fate is. I couldn’t forgive myself if I missed his trial. I understand your feelings, but I ask that you understand mine. He was raised as my brother, I cannot so easily convince my heart to abandon him.” She replied, looking up at him over her shoulder. The king didn’t look pleased, but he spent a long moment staring into her moist eyes before speaking.

“You were right in your estimation earlier. Time does seem to move differently here. I have only thought of my perception of time and not yours. You have been most patient. I will move the trial up, if only to quell your tears, my lady.” A genuine smile alighted her lips and satisfaction welled up in her chest. A part of her couldn’t believe this little charade worked.

“Thank you, Your Grace. You can’t know just how grateful I am.”

“Robert. Call me Robert.” He said again. Arya was so in her head that she didn’t register his movements until it was too late and his lips were on hers. She tensed up, her mind barely moving. She was shocked. It was unexpected. She could’ve surmised a kiss on the head, but this was totally different. She remained a statue until his tongue brushed against her lips and his hand grasped her hip. Her wits returned to her then and she stepped away from him.

“Robert…” Arya said, trailing off. Her fingers involuntarily went to her lips to wipe them clean but last minute she remembered herself and let her fingers linger, let him think she enjoyed his attention if it meant the trial would commence and she and her family were one step closer to getting home.

“I cast aside many of the lessons and morals of ladyship, but my virtue is not one of those things. I would not dishonor my father so.” She said, only partially telling the truth. He did not need to know her maidenhead was long gone, and she truly would not dishonor her father. Her partners were chosen carefully, meant to ensure word did not reach her father of her escapades.

“Of course, I meant no offense.”

“I am not offended, Robert. I am growing tired though.” The king nodded, taking her hint.

“I had a lovely evening, my lady. Once this business is done, I hope I will have the honor of looking forward to more nights like this one.” Arya gave him a small smile and allowed the kiss to her forehead. She waited until he was gone before frowning and vigorously rubbing at her lips as if it would wash the memory of the kiss away.

Ora walked in while she was rubbing at her lips and looked at her queerly before picking up the plates from the table and walking out. When she returned, it was with a bowl of hot water and a cloth. Arya gave her a thankful look and used the cloth to clean her lips and her forehead. No matter how much she scrubbed, the kiss still felt branded onto her mouth. She calmed herself with the knowledge that her planned had at least worked in the short-term. Jon’s trial would be soon and if she managed to speak to him before or during it, she could tell him to take a trial by combat. She had all the faith in the world he would win it and then they would be on their way home. She was not going to leave this city with anything or anyone less than what she came with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some patterns of behavior from Lord Baelish towards Sansa to up the ante on Robert's creep levels, but I also didn't want to push it too far. You may have noticed that I took off how many chapters the story is, that is because as I am rewriting and reworking the plot, things are getting shifted around and at this point I'm certain they will be more than 3 chapters more, but I'm not sure how many exactly. It should be in the realm of 4-6 chapters after this one, but I will hold off on saying so until I have completed writing the story. Questions and comments are always welcome. The next POV is tentatively Sansa, but that may change.
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone.


	24. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial commences.

Sansa stood nervously outside the Great Hall with her family. They had been locked in the tower above the dungeons for two, almost three weeks, but finally the king decided to hold the trial. She woke early on that day, her mind not allowing her to rest. She would see Arya and Jon again today after two weeks of separation. She was both happy and apprehensive. Happy to see them but apprehensive because she wasn’t sure what condition they were in. The king had visited she and her family sparingly in the tower and when he did come, he never told them where he was keeping their wayward family members. She couldn’t say for Arya, but she was sure wherever Jon was, he wasn’t enjoying the same amenities as the rest of them. The room in the tower, while comfortable, had started to feel claustrophobic as the days went by with the words unsaid between family members making the space even smaller.

Robb was still furious with their father for the secret he chose to keep, and Father refused to explain or defend himself beyond the same words he had been saying over and over again: ‘I only did what I thought was right’. Rickon was mad, more so about Shaggy being injured, though he said he had wolf dreams at night so the direwolf was okay. Bran was also upset but would not choose sides between their father and Robb and instead brooded in a corner by himself. Sansa still held the barest anger for her father, but she also could not stand aside and say nothing whilst Robb berated him and their father said nothing in his own defense. Robb was upset that she was not on his side and that she also held the secret, even if only for a couple of days and so they had been sniping at one another constantly while their father and Domeric tried to keep the peace between them.

It was the stress of it all, it was getting to them. Being confined with no reprieve didn’t help them and the secrets just made the room more suffocating, so to finally be released was a blessing. But she was anxious about how the trial would commence. She knew the odds were stacked against Jon. The best defense they had was that it was hardly fair for him to be forced to defend his existence when he had not asked to be born and had not himself committed any action that saw to his birth. With the king as judge, what could they possibly say or do that would convince him to abandon his bid to see Jon dead? What did he want more than that at the moment? There had to be something, there was always something, Sansa was just missing it.

As for Arya, her concerns there were different. She remembered the look she saw on his face when she caught him cornering Arya in the hallway outside the prince's chamber. She did not trust the king, or the prince for that matter. They both wanted Arya, but the king didn't want her for who she was, but rather for who she reminded him of. She hoped Arya remained unbothered by him these past weeks, but she doubted it.

"Alright?" Dom asked, moving to stand beside her, his hand pressed to the small of her back.

"As much as I can be. I'm worried." She admitted, pressing her head close to his to speak quietly.

"We will be fine." Her husband said reassuringly, his hand rubbing a circle on her back and his voice soothing.

"It's not us I'm worried about."

"If the king really knew Jon, he would know he was a good person and has no aspirations for the throne."

"To be honest, I don't think it matters to him. That's the scariest part. All he knows is Jon has Targaryen blood and that is enough for his life to be forfeit."

"And Arya?" Sansa shook her head lightly.

"That's a whole other story."

The doors opened, and a guard waved the family forward. They walked into the room with their backs straight, ignoring the stares and whispers of the spectators. There was only one defendant box in front of the throne, for Jon she assumed, and a witness box a few feet away. The guard led them to a seating section next to the steps of the dais but set apart from everyone else. She expected for them to be put on trial as well, but the king had other ideas. They sat when directed to do so to wait with everyone else. She let her eyes wander. Jon, Arya and the king weren't present yet, nor was Prince Gendry or the small council. She spotted Ser Loras in the crowd but not Margaery. Perhaps she had left already. Prince Oberyn, his paramour and his daughters were present but not Princess Arianne or Prince Trystane. The distinct lack of golden heads was hard to miss as well. She guessed Prince Gendry's mother did what she said she would: used their misfortune as cover to get away with her children. A part of her did not blame the queen. Sansa would have used whatever was at her disposal to protect her family if she was in the queen’s position, but she was not pleased about the position the queen’s actions left her family in. The family sat in silence, ignoring everyone else in the room and waiting for the trial to commence.

Eventually the door across from them opened and the small council entered first, followed by Prince Gendry. The prince, Lord Baelish, Lord Varys, Lord Renly, Lord Stannis and Grand Maester Pycelle sat at a bench adjacent to where Sansa and her family sat. Ser Barristan stayed standing and addressed the crowd.

“All rise in deference to your king, presiding over the case in the matter of the man known as Jon Snow versus the crown on charges including treason.”

Sansa stood with her family. Her eyebrows scrunched when the king arrived with Arya on his arm. Her face was kept carefully blank but there was a flash in her eye when she saw them. She moved to walked towards them, but the king had a grip on her arm that stopped her. She said something to the man that Sansa could not decipher but King Robert reluctantly let her go and she walked towards them. She stood between Sansa and their father. Father leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head which Arya accepted. Sansa squeezed Arya’s shoulder lightly in greeting. They shared a look between them, there was a look about Arya that she did not like. Sansa decided they would have a conversation later.

“Bring in the prisoner.” King Robert ordered once he sat upon the throne.

The double doors at the end of the hall opened and two of the kingsguards, Ser Balon Swann and Ser Meryn Trant, came dragging Jon between them. Sansa felt her heart clench at his appearance. Usually, a member of a highborn family, bastard or not, would be properly prepared to appear at court. They would be scrubbed clean and put in clean clothes. Jon was still in dirty clothes covered in muck and filth. He looked like he hadn’t slept in the weeks he had been locked up and had barely eaten either.

“Rapespawn!” Someone from the crowd shouted as Jon passed, though she couldn’t see who. She unconsciously squeezed Dom’s hand tighter. She hated this, not being able to do anything to fix this. She glanced at her other family members out of the corner of her eye. Robb and Rickon looked angry, Bran and their father sad and Arya was a mixture between the two emotions. Jon’s chains were not removed once he was put into the defendant box. He was cuffed to the rail of it and forced to sit.

He looked over at them when he was seated. His eyes were dull and lifeless. He looked like he had been through hell. Sansa could do nothing but shoot him a reassuring smile that she herself did not believe.

“You may now be seated.” Ser Barristan said before moving off to stand next to the steps leading to the throne. He looked troubled. He was a kingsguard for previous Targaryen kings and he knew Prince Rhaegar, perhaps he felt guilt about Jon’s predicament.

“Bastard, you stand accused by the crown on the charges of the murder of the lady Lyanna Stark and treason. What say you to these charges?” King Robert said, his voice full of hatred and anger. Jon said nothing for a moment.

“I deny it.” His voice sounded hoarse from disuse and was quiet, but his tone was even and calm. She doubted people further down the room could even hear him.

“You deny that you were conceived of rape by the false prince, Rhaegar Targaryen, on my betrothed, Lyanna Stark?”

“I simply deny any involvement or knowledge of anything pertaining to that charge. I have no personal knowledge of who Rhaegar Targaryen was, I can only speak for myself. I am not a rapist.”

“And the murder of my betrothed? If you disavow blame for her death, how would you say she died then, bastard?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t know how she died.”

“She died because of you!” King Robert retorted, his voice booming through the room like a storm. Jon looked shaken then. Lord Renly cleared his throat and gave the king a meaningful look. The king glared at Jon hard for a moment before Lord Stannis’ voice broke through the staring match.

“The crown calls its first witness.” He announced.

The testimonies felt like a blur to Sansa. Lord Baelish gave his account, saying that he had investigated the matter of Jon’s birth because her mother asked him to find out who his birth mother was. He relayed the strangeness of the Tower of Joy, the questions it brought up. Why would Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent and their Lord Commander, Gerold Hightower, choose to guard a 16-year-old Northern girl instead of Prince Viserys if Rhaegar’s sons were dead? Why keep Lyanna Stark out of sight for so long?

Lord Varys testified that Prince Rhaegar was taken with prophecies, especially ones about a Prince That Was Promised. He said the prince believed his son, Aegon, to be that prince and that Rhaegar was meant to have a child of ice and fire to support Aegon in the future. He also learned about the Pact of Ice and Fire between Cregan Stark and Rhaenyra Targaryen and believed it meant his blood was meant to mingle with a Stark's, thus creating a child of ice and fire. As a result, he propositioned Lyanna Stark at Harrenhal, but was rebuffed after the embarrassment he caused her at the tourney, crowning her in front of everyone. He testified that he continued to send her aunt letters after the tourney in the months before he took her away. He supposed that Prince Rhaegar may have brought her aunt to Dorne because that was the last place he would think people would look for him, the homeland of the wife who he insulted, and the tower was isolated but functional and strategically placed enough that he could hide his pregnant captive if he needed to and give him ample warning of an attack.

Ser Barristan’s testimony was short, but he relayed that Prince Rhaegar could be single-minded when he put his head to it and that he often would spend time at the ruins of Summerhall “gorging on grief” and indulging in admittedly dark thoughts and plans the knight was not made privy to.

Sansa had been clenching her jaw at all the testimonies. She wanted to point out that all they proved was that her aunt and Prince Rhaegar may have been involved, and while they could be used to condemn Prince Rhaegar, they did not condemn Jon and he shouldn’t be put on trial for their actions. She and her siblings were called forth to testify but they all said much the same thing. They knew nothing about Jon not being their biological brother, they were not plotting to take the throne from House Baratheon, the North was loyal to the Iron Throne, Jon was a good man. If they tried to defend him more, they were cut off and pulled out of the witness’ box to return to their seats.

Sansa practically ground her teeth when her father was called to testify. She did not know what he would say. She was sure he wouldn’t lie but she didn’t know how much the truth would help Jon. Her father squeezed Jon’s shoulder when he passed him to sit in the witness’ box and face his best friend.

“Lord Eddard Stark, place your right hand over your heart. Do you swear upon the Old Gods and the New to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing else besides?” Ser Barristan asked, swearing her father in.

“I swear.” Her father said before settling himself in.

“Lord Stark, what say you to the charges lodged against the bastard?” King Robert rumbled.

“The charges are false. Jon did not kill Lyanna and he has no aspirations for the throne.” He replied in a strong tone.

“And the charges that could be filed against you for treason?”

“They are more valid than the ones that are being pinned onto Jon, but I have never had any intention or reason to want to plot for the throne. If I wanted it, I would have taken it during the Rebellion. Jon didn't even know the truth, so there was no reason for him to plot for the throne either."

"You admit the bastard's origin? You admit he is rapespawn that ripped his mother apart to come into this world?"

"When the war began, I had no knowledge of Lyanna’s whereabouts nor did I know whether she had gone willingly or not. You know how she was, wild and taken by her own fancies. She was a child, only 15 years old when she disappeared. I entered the war to retrieve her just as much as I did to avenge my father and brother’s deaths. I did not know the prince very well, but I was not convinced he had taken her even before she told me as much. I could not picture Lyanna being kidnapped, but the longer the war went on the more I believed she must have been taken because I could think of no other reason she would stay away. When I did find her at the Tower of Joy, she was in a bed of blood surrounded by winter roses and Jon was being held by a midwife. Lyanna was weak, dying, but she sprang to life when she saw me. She was crying, apologizing, saying she hadn’t meant for things to happen the way it did. She said she hadn’t thought of the consequences when she left with Prince Rhaegar, but she knew what had become of Princess Elia and her children. She begged me to keep Jon safe. To protect him from… to protect him from you, Your Grace. She wanted…” Her father paused before turning to look at Jon who was watching him with rapt attention.

“She wanted you, Jon. She loved you. You are not rapespawn. Your mother left with Prince Rhaegar of her own volition. I cannot say if it was out of love or something else. Perhaps he promised her something, I do not know. She regretted leaving with the prince for the damage it wrought to our family and to the kingdom, but she didn’t regret you. Your mother made mistakes and I made mistakes as well. I shouldn’t have kept this from you this long. You deserved the truth. You deserved your mother. I could not bring her back from the dead for you, but I tried my best to make sure you knew you have a family. That’s what your mother wanted for you. For you to be safe and loved. Her death wasn't your fault. She was of the North, Dorne was not the place for her. The sun caused her to be sick, leeched her energy, and the idiot kingsguards did not get her a maester, only a midwife. She was young, and her spirits had left her over the course of the war. She didn't have the strength to overcome the complications the birth and her sickness caused. There are many factors, but the blame should not be on your shoulders.” Sansa could see from her vantage point that Jon’s lip was trembling from the emotion he held back. Sansa’s own eyes were growing misty.

“I’ve never known you to be a liar, Ned, you would start now? Why would Lyanna go with Rhaegar Targaryen willingly?” Her father tore his eyes from Jon and looked at the king undecidedly.

“You will not like my answer, Robert.”

“Answer the question. Answer it plainly and truly.” King Robert demanded. Her father sighed but answered.

“I know how much you loved Lyanna but even so, you strayed from her. Lyanna was tentative about the betrothal at best but when she found out about your bastard daughter, Mya Stone, and your various exploits in the Vale, she wanted the betrothal to be broken. She begged our father to end it. She suggested every eligible Northern lordling there was. She even asked me to send her a list of Vale lordlings she could present as options to our father to try to break the betrothal. Brandon tried to intercede for her, but our father denied him. I also tried to talk to our father to break the betrothal, but he denied me as well.” King Robert looked at her father with a look of pure betrayal.

“You tried to convince your father to break our betrothal?”

“She didn’t love you. I’m sorry Robert, but she didn’t. As I said, I don’t know if she loved Prince Rhaegar or not, but I know that she loved Jon. Her dying wish was for him to be safe. If you truly have any love in your heart for her, any at all, you won’t throw away her final wish like it meant nothing. You won’t kill Jon for the mistakes of Lyanna and Rhaegar.” Whispers between the courtiers overtook the room but Sansa’s attention was on the king. His face went through a wealth of emotion so quickly Sansa did not catch them all before he landed on anger and regret.

“We were young back then. As you say, Ned, many mistakes were made. I admit my fair share of them. If I could do it all over again, I would have proven to your sister that I would have treated her right. I would have given up anything or anyone in this world if she had only asked. Second chances are a rare enough thing. When they come, only a fool does not recognize and seize them.” The king’s eyes moved from her father to Jon and then over towards her and her family. No, to Arya. Sansa glanced over at her sister. She looked cautious and uncertain, but she fixed her lips into a genial smile. Sansa was momentarily surprised. Arya wielded swords not smiles but she played genteel now. Sansa looked back at the king. That uncomfortable hunger was in his eye again as he looked at Arya, the longing. She felt her stomach drop a little. The only thing the king could want more than Jon was Aunt Lyanna but Arya…

The king looked away and addressed the crowd.

“Lord Stark admits his sister died as a result of the bastard’s birth, which makes him guilty of murder if not treason. The punishment for murder is death. However, let it not be said that I am a king without mercy. The Lady Arya Stark has previously expressed to me great interest in the safety of the bastard. I understand that she was raised as his sister due to false information fed to her. So, I would like to offer a trade to the lady. I will show clemency to the bastard. I will allow him to return to Winterfell where he will remain under guard by men of my choosing for the rest of his days and he will marry a woman of my choosing. If he has children, his eldest son shall be made to join the Night's watch when he reaches of age, but the second may become a maester or septon depending on their preference. The others I will decide upon later. Any daughters he may have will be wards here in King's Landing to marry men of my choosing. I will extend this mercy, if the Lady Arya would do me the honor of becoming my wife.” Buzzing kicked up in the room and gasps of surprise. Sansa felt a gasp leave her own lips. She had thought he might demand Arya stay in the city, not that she marry him. Arya stood stiff as a board beside her, barely breathing.

“Your Grace, she is only a girl.” Father protested.

“She is older than Lyanna was when we were betrothed.”

“How is this clemency? You still mean to steal away one of my siblings and the other would still be a prisoner, except one in our own home and his children would be prisoners after him. This is your mercy?!” Robb added, his anger making his face red.

“Robb, don’t.” Arya said, her voice quiet. Sansa saw the grim determination on her face and knew what she had decided. She turned to Arya fully and took her hand in hers.

“Arya…” Her little sister met her eyes and all the words died on Sansa’s tongue. In their youth, she would tease her little sister mercilessly about her looks and about her future. She would say she would be forced to marry some crotchety old man who would only let her sew and raise babies for the rest of her days. She had apologized many times, but now the words felt all the crueler. Arya squeezed her hand and walked to the center of the room until she came to stand beside Jon in front of the king.

“You will let my brother return home with our family, alive, and you will not attack them on their way to the North or brand them traitors?” Arya clarified.

“You have my word.” Arya took a deep breath before nodding.

“Okay. If you will spare my brother, then I will consent to be your wife.” The room went noiseless at her pronouncement, even the courtiers struck silent. Sansa felt like her heart was ripped from her chest. A smile overtook the king’s face. This wasn’t how this was meant to end. They were meant to go home together. Her sister was not meant to be trapped as their aunt’s replacement for a fat, lazy oaf still living 20 years in the past. Her brother was not meant to spend the rest of his life at the command and behest of that oaf. What would they tell Mother if they returned home without Arya but with a retinue of Baratheon guards who would watch their every move for the rest of their lives? Suddenly a voice cut through the tense quiet.

“No.” Jon hadn’t spoken through Arya’s exchange with the king, seemingly dumbstruck by the turn of events but he had gathered his bearings now.

“You’re not marrying him.” He continued. Arya turned to look at their brother.

“If it saves you then—”

“I don’t want to be saved if it means you’re going to be a prisoner for the rest of your life in this city.”

“And I don’t want to go home if it means you’re not coming with us. I’m your sister, I’m supposed to protect you. I’m doing this.” Arya stepped closer to the defendant box and out of Sansa’s earshot. She watched the two of them go back and forth with each other for a moment before Jon shook his head and looked to the king.

“Jon, don’t—” Arya protested, raising her voice a little.

“Why not tell him? It’s the truth.”

“Tell me what, bastard?” The king asked, staring down at Jon with death in his eyes.

“Tell you the truth about who you are.”

“And what truth is that?”

“You’re a hypocrite.” The gasps and whispers returned, the courtiers shaking from their shock.

“What did you say to me, boy?”

“You have supposedly spent the last 20 odd years bemoaning the fact that my mother was stolen from you under false pretenses, hating the man that took her away, and you want to steal my sister away. You want to use me, so you can keep her because you know she would not marry you any other way. And you don’t even want her for her, you want her because she looks like Lyanna Stark. If you were the same man you are now standing before me that you were 20 years ago, then I am not surprised that my mother didn’t love you. No matter how much you have deluded yourself, my sister will never love you either. I spent years hearing about the great man you were from my father but you’re not worth the admiration I had for you in my youth, you’re not worth the faith my father put in you and you certainly aren’t worthy of my sister. I am not going to give my family’s lives over to you because you are obsessed with my mother and I know I will get no fair justice here, so I will put my fate in the hands of the Gods, for however much they are worth this far south. I demand a trial by combat.” Sansa felt bewilderment overtake her face. She did not know whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. The king jumped up from his throne and started shouting all kinds of abuse at Jon, but her brother did not pay him any attention, he was looking at Prince Gendry. Sansa glanced over at the prince, his face was indecipherable but there was a hint of something else, a glimmer of knowing. Perhaps they had more allies than she knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my least favorite chapter, partly because this is the first time I've written a court room scene so I debated with myself how to make it effective without making it meandering or tedious. I'm not 100% on the result but as always, questions and comments are welcome.
> 
> Next POV: Jon

**Author's Note:**

> Questions and comments are welcome.


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